


Such a Good Boy

by ChancellorGriffin



Category: Person of Interest (TV), Scandal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Cunnilingus, Dom Harold Finch, Dom/sub Undertones, Double Penetration, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time Bottoming, First Time Topping, Gay Sex, M/M, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pegging, Polyamory, Pool Sex, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, Sub John Reese, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 17:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5635396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChancellorGriffin/pseuds/ChancellorGriffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold Finch and John Reese definitely don't have feelings for each other.</p><p>Nope.</p><p>Not at all.</p><p>They're only the single most important human being in each other's lives, a constant and necessary presence, intimate with personal details about each other privy to no one else, and from time to time casually exchange blow jobs.  YOU KNOW, LIKE FRIENDS.</p><p>Then Zoe Morgan drags John to Dubai as her date-slash-backup to a gala at the Consulate, where they run into Zoe's old college friend and occasional lover Stephen Finch - a jet-setting lawyer/fixer and former Gladiator from Olivia Pope and Associates.  A wild night in the rooftop pool of John's 200th-floor hotel suite awakens a whole host of new desires in John, and a mischievous streak in Zoe . . . </p><p>Or, the fic that began as one Kabby uber-fan's attempt to get alternate-universe Paige Turco and Henry Ian Cusick in bed together in a completely new combination (via "Person of Interest" and "Scandal"), and ended up a passionate, feelingsy and aggressively X-rated love story between Reese and Finch.</p><p>With threesomes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John and Zoe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [convenientmisfires](https://archiveofourown.org/users/convenientmisfires/gifts), [victorias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorias/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Only John Reese could possibly think so little of John Reese’s own personal charms as to assume that Zoe's dazzled expression was solely to do with the hotel room, and not the heartstoppingly gorgeous man in the Italian tuxedo on the other side of the door."

There was very little John Reese wouldn’t do for Zoe Morgan.

So when he got a phone call asking him if he had plans next Saturday night - and, if he didn’t, could he be her date to a black-tie embassy gala - he said yes without thinking twice.

“What time shall I pick you up?” he asked.

“I’ll meet you there,” she said.  “I’ve got my own ride.  By the way,” she added, “it’s in Dubai.”

“What on earth is Zoe Morgan doing in the United Arab Emirates?”

“A favor for an old friend,” she said, somewhat cryptically.

“And you need backup?  Are you expecting trouble?”

She laughed. “Nobody’s getting shot, John,” she said dryly.  “You can leave the firearms in the hotel safe.  I need a handsome man who can wear a tuxedo and doesn’t mind holding my purse.”

“I’m flattered you thought of me first.”

“Fourth,” she corrected dryly.  “Fusco was busy, Shaw’s exact words were ‘embassy parties suck,’ and there's no time for a proper suit fitting for Bear.”

“You sure know how to make a guy feel special, Zoe.”

“9 p.m., French consulate,” she said.  “I’m going to be in about $1.8 million in jewelry -”

“And nothing else?”

“ . . . so wear a suit that doesn’t embarrass me.  See you soon, John.”  And she rang off with a click.  Even her dial tone sounded flirtatious.

John picked up his cell and dialed again.  “Finch,” he said when the other man picked up.  “I need to use a couple of my vacation days.”

“You don’t have vacation days, Mr. Reese.”

“Oh, and a plane ticket to Dubai.”

“Let me guess,” said Harold.  “Ms. Morgan needs a favor.”

“Am I really that predictable?”

“Yes.”

“Also, I need a new suit for a gala at the French consulate,” John added.  “Feel like doing a little shopping?”

“I trust your sartorial prowess will not disappoint Ms. Morgan,” said Harold. “I have never known you to find yourself at a loss in selecting the appropriate suit for any occasion.”

“I’ve got suits,” said John.  “What I need is a tuxedo.”

“You _have_ a tuxedo.”

“I have a tuxedo for when you make me dress up as a waiter,” said John.  “I don’t have a tuxedo for standing next to Zoe while she’s wearing a million bucks’ worth of diamonds.”

There was a pause, and the faintest hint of a sigh.

“We’ll make a stop in Milan on the way to Dubai,” said Harold finally.

“You’re a lifesaver, Finch.”

“Although if Ms. Morgan’s mysterious plot goes awry and causes blood or gunpowder residue to permanently soil hand-stitched Italian wool, she can expect my dry cleaner’s bill in the mail.”

“I’ll make sure she knows,” said John, and then hung up.

* * * * *

Finch did better than just providing John with a private jet and escorting him to Milan’s most luxurious men’s tailor.  Reasoning that wearing a million dollars in jewelry meant that Zoe was running a con that depended upon her being conspicuous, Harold assumed that John as her escort would probably draw notice as well and would need a plausible cover.  Left to his own devices, John would have preferred something sensible and straightforward, like “lawyer” or “low-level government official.”  But Harold dismissed every suggestion with a wave of his hand.  

“A woman like Zoe Morgan - or, more accurately, a woman like whoever Zoe Morgan is attending this embassy soiree pretending to be - would _not_ be seen on the arm of some junior-level bureaucrat,” he said firmly, in the very particular tone he used when John’s lack of cultural savoir-faire threatened to give him a fit of the vapors.  In the end, John lost the battle and ended up playing the role of a ludicrously wealthy international businessman who was somehow associated with the diamond trade in a manner that was probably illegal.  “It’s Dubai,” said Harold sensibly, as though it were the most obvious statement in the world.  “A vague whiff of financial corruption will help sell the cover.”

“If you say so,” John had answered dubiously, but Harold was convinced.

They parted at the airport where John was met with a limousine to drive him to his ludicrously opulent penthouse suite, in a luxury skyscraper hotel just down the block from the consulate.  Two hundred floors over the skyline of Dubai, the room commanded a 360-degree view of the night sky and the soft glitter of the lights below.  The apartment was one vast open space with no interior walls to cut off the view, all glass and steel and lush white carpet.  Sliding doors led from the living room to a wraparound deck with stairs to the suite’s greatest attraction - an infinity-style jacuzzi tub that looked out over the city on an entirely isolated, private rooftop deck.  “I’m here for one night, Finch,” John had protested when he saw the cost.  “That’s an insane price for a hotel room.”

“I cannot permit Ms. Morgan and her million dollar jewels to come pick you up for the evening from the lobby of a _Best Western_ ,” Harold had said, and John didn’t argue.  Zoe and Harold knew all about how to spend money, and if Harold thought that putting John up at this hotel helped sell whatever story Zoe was selling, then who was he to argue?

It didn’t hurt that Zoe’s jaw dropped when she arrived to meet him - though only John Reese could possibly think so little of John Reese’s own personal charms as to assume that her dazzled expression was solely to do with the hotel room, and not the heartstoppingly gorgeous man in the Italian tuxedo on the other side of the door.

“Nice digs,” she observed, taking in the surroundings with approval.  "Harold's got taste." 

But John wasn’t listening.  He was unable to think about anything that was not the barely-there sequined dress hugging every single one of Zoe’s flawless curves, revealing an intoxicating expanse of both cleavage and thigh.  It was a rich jeweled green, gleaming in the hotel room’s low lamplight like the scales of a dragon.  Completing the effect, between the pair of spectacular breasts which the dress rather noticeably brought to the foreground hung an emerald the size of an egg on a silver filigree chain.

“Zoe Morgan,” he said, when he finally recovered the power of speech.  “You look like one point eight million bucks.”  She laughed merrily and kissed his cheek, lingering just long enough to make sure he got a chance to look down her magnificent cleavage and realize she wasn’t wearing a bra.  

_Get it together, John._

“I could have shown up in a burlap sack and it wouldn’t matter,” he observed to her as they closed the door and walked down the hall to the elevator.  “No one’s going to be looking at me when you’re dressed like that.  And that necklace is . . .  definitely something.”

“It’s a bit more flamboyant than my usual look,” Zoe allowed, “but the emerald is the reason I’m here.”

“How so?”

“My old friend in Dubai has a security problem,” she said as they stepped into the elevator and whooshed noiselessly down two hundred floors.  “The diamond is part of his personal collection and he has reason to believe that someone from within his organization is plotting to steal it.”

“Then strutting around the consulate wearing it on your neck could be a monumentally dangerous idea.”

“That’s why they hired me,” she said.  “That’s the job.  Strut around the consulate flaunting the emerald, and _watch._  He didn’t tell anyone he loaned it to me for the night, so everyone’s reactions will be authentic.  I’m supposed to watch for anyone acting suspicious, paying the necklace too much notice, or staring too hard.”

“I don’t want to tell you how to do your job,” John observed, “but if you’re trying to weed out people with an overly-enthusiastic interest in that necklace, maybe you shouldn’t have paired it with a dress that’s going to have everyone in the room staring there anyway.”

“Oh, John,” sighed Zoe patiently.  “If you don’t think I’ve learned, by this point in my life, how to tell what a man is thinking when he’s staring at me, I wouldn’t be very good at my job.”  She grinned at him.  “For example, right now you’re wondering if you pressed the emergency stop button on this elevator, if you’d have time to get me out of this dress and then back in it again before cocktail hour begins.”  She stepped in close to him and ran her hands down the silky fabric of his lapels.  “And while unfortunately the answer is no," she added, flicking her eyes downward and then back up again to indicate that she had, in fact, noticed his growing erection, "I certainly appreciate your . . . enthusiasm."

Any response he might have made was silenced just then as the elevator doors opened into the lobby.  And with that, emerald-jeweled hips swinging, she sauntered towards the front door to make her way to the embassy, with a lust-addled John Reese in her wake.

* * * * *

Zoe seemed to be enjoying herself, but for John, the party was excruciating.

She kept him close at hand, her arm more often than not draped possessively over his, to ward off unwanted attention.  John did his best to look like a slimy businessman and not a - well, whatever you’d say he currently was; armed vigilante? - casing the room without drawing undue attention.  Zoe smelled irresistibly delicious - some spicy floral thing he didn’t recognize - and was so petite, even in her stratospherically high silver heels, that every time he looked down at her he caught the same tantalizing glimpse straight down the neckline of her dress.

All of that was bad enough, but then she decided she wanted to dance.

“To help sell the cover story,” she explained, which he didn’t buy for a moment.  The only reason Zoe wanted to dance with him was because she knew it would be torture, and he told her so.  She laughed, but didn’t yield.  He found himself biting his lips, struggling to remember all the self-control tools he’d learned in the military to attempt to force down the ache of arousal that was rising up inside him through the combination of her spicy scent and the pressure of her breasts against his chest and the feel of her fingertips idly grazing the hair on the back of his neck and the way she looked up at him with that sly little Zoe smile.  It was when he was in the middle of listing the U.S. presidents in alphabetical order by last name that he noticed the man in the gray suit watching them.

He was tall, even taller than John, with dark hair and a salt-and-pepper beard, handsome in a way that seemed somehow tinged with recklessness.  even though John knew they had never met before - _I’d_ definitely _remember a man like that_ , said a voice in his head with a puzzlingly heated intensity that startled John - the man was watching them with a casual yet unblinking focus that triggered all his internal alarms.

“Zoe,” he said quietly, leaning down as though to murmur romantic nothings in her ear.  “My twelve o’clock.  Dark-haired guy with a beard in a gray suit.  Don’t turn around.”

"He's watching us?"

"Yeah."

“Could be our guy,” she said in a low voice, carefully not turning around.  “Get me closer, but don’t attract his attention.”

So, with one hand on her waist and one on her bare back, he danced Zoe backwards towards the far side of the dance floor.  It was very gracefully done, slow and unhurried and in perfect time to the music; when they arrived within sight of their mark, John waited for a crescendo and then executed a perfect dip-and-twirl, which spun them both around into reversed positions so Zoe had eyes on the man in the gray suit.

“I’m impressed,” she said.  “That was pretty smooth.”

“You’d be surprised how smooth my moves are, Zoe,” he said, his face drawing infinitesimally closer to hers.  She smiled up at him, a lazy languid playful smile, with her glossy red lips parted so he could nearly taste her breath.

“Oh, I don’t think I’d be surprised at all,” she said huskily, and was about to add more when her face suddenly lit up at something over John’s shoulder.

“Oh!” she exclaimed.  “I know him.”

“So he’s not our bad guy?”

“Oh, he’s _definitely_ a bad guy,” she laughed, “but in the best possible way.”

And with that, she pulled away from John and seized his hand, pulling him with her to where the man in gray stood.

“Why, Stephen Finch,” she said in delight.  “They’ll just let anybody in here, won’t they?”

“Zoe Morgan,” he replied, in a warm rich voice faintly tinged with a British accent.  “Look at you.  Strolling around the ballroom flaunting your precious jewels for all to see.  The emerald’s nice too.”

She burst out laughing as they kissed each other on both cheeks.  John stood a few feet apart, stiff and solitary and a little self-conscious; he was trying very hard not to think about his own seriousness, which sometimes verged on humorlessness and made it difficult to keep up with Zoe.  He didn’t have the quick ease with flirtatious banter that this man did.  But he was also trying very hard not to stare.  Up close, the man was even more handsome than John had first thought, with a chiseled jaw beneath the meticulously-trimmed beard and impossibly dark eyes.  John had a professional’s respect for the quality of the man’s tailoring which only rose when found himself near enough to see the suit in detail.  He would be so careful with that suit, he thought, if he ever had the chance to take it off him . . . and then froze, blushing and awkward, as he realized where the incredibly vivid mental picture was leading.  Was he really standing here beside Zoe in the company of a total stranger and imagining the dizzying sensory pleasures of undressing him?  

As if the man could hear him, he reached out a hand to John with a curious expression and introduced himself.  “Stephen Finch,” the man said warmly.  “That’s a great suit.”  And it was such a simple, everyday line, so casual, nearly meaningless, just a set of words people exchange in introductory conversation without a moment’s thought.  Just words.  That’s all.

There was no reason why his words should have sent shivers all over John’s skin as if he’d paid John a far more erotically-charged compliment - as if he’d been talking about John’s cock instead of his clothing.  There was no reason John should be fighting not to blush.  There was no reason Zoe should be looking from one man to the other with the dawning excitement of someone who’s just had a particularly naughty idea.  

There was no reason John should be losing his mind over a polite greeting and a handshake.

No reason at all.

So why couldn’t he stop?


	2. Stephen and Zoe and John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The running joke in law school about Stephen Finch and his mile-a-minute tongue wasn’t just about how he could out-talk any opposing counsel without breaking a sweat."

Zoe drank nothing all night but club soda with lime, disguised as gin and tonic.  She wanted to stay sharp, and John also suspected she wanted a drink that would look good next to that emerald - not that it mattered, since the presence of two formidable men on her arm kept any would-be jewel thief at bay and no one approached her all night.  “Client says we’ll try again another time,” she said, dropping her cell into her clutch and snapping it shut.

“Sorry the night was a bust,” said John, a little thickly.  He had not been drinking club soda.  Stephen had located an obliging bartender who had cheerfully handed over an entire bottle of five-thousand-dollar Japanese whiskey; and, since Stephen had refused to take John's no for an answer, they’d made an impressive dent in it already by the time Zoe decided to call it a night.  

She handed off the emerald to her client’s security guard and took Stephen and John by the hand.  “I think it’s time we move this party across the street,” she said firmly.

“What’s across the street?” asked Stephen curiously.

“Me,” she said, and sauntered out of the ballroom, leading the men in a flustered chase to follow her.  

Both Stephen and John were frantic for the chance to fuck Zoe.  They’d both done it before, many times, and no other woman could compare.  But they were also both unable to stop thinking about, or staring at, each other.  Each man wondered what the other was thinking.  Each man wondered what the night was about to have in store for them.

When they returned to the penthouse suite, Zoe disappeared behind the apartment’s only opaque door while Stephen poured three large glasses of the whiskey he’d smuggled out under his coat, then gave himself a tour of the living room (he was particularly enchanted by the view).  Neither man said anything.  John accepted the glass Stephen handed him and was about to consider venturing into the search for a neutral conversation topic when the bathroom door opened again and Zoe emerged.

Without her dress.

Wearing nothing but a black lace bra and panties.

John swallowed hard, with an audible gulp, and beside him he could hear Stephen do the exact same thing.  They both watched in mute wonder as she picked up the third glass of whiskey, took a long appreciative sip, then settled herself comfortably on the sofa, crossed her legs, and looked up expectantly at the men standing in front of her.

“Well, boys,” she said.  “How do you suggest we amuse ourselves?”

John was so hard he could scarcely breathe, his entire body tense from his swelling erection.  Sheer nervousness, and the need to do something with his hands, led him to knock back his whiskey in one gulp.  

“It’s a good sign,” said Stephen wryly to Zoe, “that he can take that much in just one swallow.”

John blushed so hard he could scarcely look at either of them, which made Zoe laugh affectionately. “Stop taunting the poor boy,” she ordered Stephen, “can’t you see you’ve got him half out of his mind?”  

“He started it,” retorted Stephen.  “Look at him.  Look at that goddamn tuxedo.  He’s James fucking Bond.”  John looked up sharply and met Stephen's eyes, which were - astonishingly - heavy with unconcealed, open desire.   He slid one arm around John’s waist and stepped in close to him, causing John’s heart to begin thumping in his chest like a martial drum.  “I’m so sorry,” said Stephen quietly, cradling John's face in his hands and guiding it down until their lips were only a breath apart, “but I’ve been trying not to kiss you for the past four hours and I can’t do it anymore.  I give up.”  

And then the world stopped moving as Stephen kissed him.

John had been with male lovers, but he’d never been kissed like this before.  He’d never been kissed by a man who could match him height for height, a man who could make him feel like someone bigger and stronger than him was taking the lead, wrapping him in a passionate embrace, _dominating_ him.  He melted into Stephen's arms as Stephen kissed him and kissed him and kissed him, their parted mouths crashing against each other over and over with increasingly wild and frantic urgency.  Zoe watched with hunger in her eyes as he backed John up against the glass wall, pinning his hands in place.  John could feel a desperately erect cock press hard against his thigh, and he began to feel dizzy as the man’s hot mouth danced against his own.

Zoe, a devoted voyeur at heart, curled up happily on the luxe gray velvet couch, sipping her whiskey and sighing with pleasure.  She and Stephen Finch - friends and occasionally casual lovers since law school - had a long history of nights just like this one.  Back when he worked at Olivia Pope & Associates she’d find herself from time to time taking clients represented by his firm and spending a week or two in some Washington D.C. luxury hotel; or, after he left to pursue more international work, they’d bump into each other on the job somewhere like Paris or Beijing.  Sometimes it was planned, sometimes accidental.  They seemed to have an infallible radar for both trouble, and each other.  And so they’d meet up in a dark mahogany-and-brass hotel bar, or an art gallery opening - or, in tonight’s case, a consulate gala - and they’d exchange that particular look that meant tonight they felt like playing with a third.  Sometimes Zoe would return to the hotel suite arm-in-arm with a leggy supermodel in a barely-there cocktail dress.  Sometimes Stephen wouldn’t be able to tear his eyes off a man in a flawlessly-tailored suit.  They were both perfectly content either way.  And tonight, the main course on the menu was John Reese.

John and Stephen were the two most delicious lovers of Zoe Morgan’s life, and the thought of the two of them together made her practically lick her lips.  John, somewhat surprisingly for a man of his stature and commanding presence, was by nature and instinct entirely submissive; he liked to be dominated, to follow orders - making him both a perfect fit for Zoe, and for Stephen.  From the moment she’d spotted Stephen in the ballroom, she’d been unable to get the thought of them together out of her mind.

“John’s a very good boy,” she observed to Stephen as she watched their mouths tangle breathlessly with each other from her seat on the couch.  “Wonderfully obedient.  He’ll do anything you tell him.”

“Anything?” asked Stephen archly, eyes locked on John’s and breathing heavily.  

John swallowed hard.

“Try him and see,” said Zoe.

Stephen stepped back, releasing John’s captive arms, and looked him up and down, slowly, deliciously, savoring the man’s body with his eyes.  “All right,” he said.  “John, I want you to undress me.”

John ran his hands up the lapels of Stephen’s suit before pushing it off his shoulders, folding it carefully (just like he had pictured when he first met the man) and setting it on the chair.  He knelt down at Stephen’s feet and carefully removed his shoes and socks, then rose back up to carefully pull off his tie.  His hands trembled the faintest bit with anticipation as he slowly and precisely unbuttoned Stephen’s shirt, which he folded on top of the jacket, then tugged off his undershirt.  He wanted very, very badly to kiss Stephen’s chest, but he didn’t.  He hadn’t yet been given permission.  So instead his hands moved lovingly, appreciatively, over the impossibly luxurious wool of Stephen’s trousers, sliding all over his hips and thighs, before unbuckling his belt.  John’s hands lingered over the zipper longer than was strictly necessary, but Stephen was far from minding.  On the contrary, he ground his hips forward to capture more of John’s hand.  As John unfastened the trousers and slid them off Stephen’s hips, leaving the man’s perfect body entirely bared save for a pair of black boxer briefs, he folded them up with the rest of the suit and then let himself simply stand there and look at him.

It was impossible for John to conceal his erection at the near-naked man in front of him, so he didn’t even try.  Then, “take off your clothes, John,” said Stephen in a low, commanding voice that sent a thrill through John’s entire body.  He wasn’t as careful with his own suit as he had been with Stephen’s.  He was too frantic, too hungry, too ready to press himself against the other man skin to skin and feel Stephen’s rough beard scratch him all over.  Stephen, for his part, was beginning to feel faint with pleasure at the astonishing sensation of having this tall, gorgeous, powerfully-built man so enthusiastically happy to obey him.  Where had Zoe found this magnificent creature?  His eyes were so intense and dark and serious that Stephen felt himself startled by the sensation of vertigo, as though he were falling into them.  It was one of the sexiest things he’d ever experienced - and this from a man who’d once fucked Zoe Morgan against a Madonna and Child sculpture in the medieval art wing of the Louvre.

Overcome with desire, Stephen pulled John - now also clad only in his underwear - close against him and slipped his arms around the other man’s back.  Stephen didn’t go in much for emotional complications in his many affairs, as a rule, but there was something intoxicating about John Reese that made Stephen want to hold him.  And so for a long moment, they simply stood there, chest to chest, forehead to forehead, skin pressed against hot skin, hands roaming everywhere.  Breathing each other in.

A fragment of a forgotten song lyric floated through Stephen's mind.  _"You put your arms around me, and I'm home . . ."_

Jesus Christ, where had _that_ come from?

_Get it together, Stephen._

He shook it off abruptly, ducking his head to press a row of kisses down John’s chest, making the other man inhale sharply with pleasure.  “Does that feel good?” he murmured.

“Oh God, Stephen,” John sighed in a low, hoarse voice.

Then Zoe piped up again from the couch with an offhand comment that changed everything.

Forever.

“Now John,” she said, in a lightly mocking voice.  “You know you really want to call him by his last name.”  Stephen looked at her, puzzled.  “Do it, John,” she urged, raw desire in her eyes.  “Call him Finch.”

And so, when Stephen’s lips returned to John’s chest to close firmly around first one nipple and then the other, suckling firmly and sending fire through John’s body, he couldn’t help himself.  “Oh God, Finch,” he groaned, and something inside all three of them snapped.

For Stephen, there was a particular pleasure in how formal it felt to have John use his last name, how authoritative and commanding it made him feel.  Over on the couch, Zoe felt a rush of wetness flood between her thighs at the sound of John moaning that particular name, two of her most cherished John Reese fantasies merging together before her eyes.  And for John himself, everything was arousal and confusion.  Without ever ceasing to think about the impossibly handsome nearly-naked man whose beard was sending electric pleasure throughout every nerve ending as he licked and sucked John’s nipples - without ever pushing Stephen from his mind - a second Finch had crowded into John’s thoughts, and every time he said the name it was in some strange way as though he was being kissed by both of them.  While Zoe watched.  

John Reese had never been this hard in his life.

Stephen guided John over to the sofa and sat him down beside Zoe.  He kissed her first, wet and hard and hungry, as John watched in dizzy pleasure; then he returned to John, pressing him backwards against the back of the couch and devouring his mouth for a blissful moment before kneeling down on the lush white carpet at their feet to carefully remove their underwear - using both his hands, and his teeth.

Zoe’s underwear came off first, Stephen biting into the black lace to deftly maneuver it down her perfect thighs.  John was next, and the ever-so-brief brush of rough beard against his cock, as Stephen's mouth tugged his boxer briefs down to the floor, was excruciating.  He could have come then and there.  Stephen lifted one of Zoe’s legs, kissed his way up and down it a few times, and then draped it over John’s to spread her wide open before him and bring their bodies closer together.  Then he knelt down before them, and set to work.

The running joke in law school about Stephen Finch and his mile-a-minute tongue wasn’t just about how he could out-talk any opposing counsel without breaking a sweat.  Zoe purred in satisfaction as Stephen hungrily licked and sucked at her clit, eating her out to absolute perfection, exactly the way she liked it.  She curled up against John, resting her head on his shoulder as her body trembled in bliss.  But John was barely aware of her.  His head lolled back, hands clutching fruitlessly against the couch cushions, as he gasped for breath while Stephen devoured his cock more forcefully than anyone had ever done before.  He began to feel faint and dizzy, his whole body going limp, as Stephen fucked him wildly with lips and teeth and tongue, alternating between deep-throating him and fluttering delicate kisses against the sensitive tip and licking broad flat strokes up and down the shaft and sometimes even biting the tiniest bit.  The sense of mounting pressure inside John began to rise and rise, but Stephen would not let him come.  Nor Zoe, either.  The second one of them began to get close, he would pull away and switch to the other.  He edged them like this for a long, long time, what felt to John like an eternity.  He was half-dead from the delayed orgasm and his entire body was desperate for release.

Seeing John in this state made Zoe practically swoon.  Her biggest turn-on had always been watching other people having sex, especially men.  She’d long suspected that John Reese and Harold Finch enjoyed a quiet, discreet sexual arrangement with each other that the rest of the team didn’t know about; the way John moaned the name “Finch” with Stephen’s mouth swallowing up his cock seemed to prove it.  The mental image of John and Harold in bed was one that had provided her hours of private pleasure over the years; it was a particular favorite on nights she was home alone in the bath with her scented candles and expensive European-designed massaging showerhead, bringing herself to meltingly delicious orgasms from the thought of Harold Finch going down on John, or riding him from behind.  Nothing in the world could make Zoe come harder than the thought of John Reese being dominated in bed; the fact that she finally got the chance to watch it happen - and that she would be able to play, too - was driving her wild.

After they had both come so close to orgasm over and over that they were sweating and trembling and nearly faint, Stephen looked up at John from where he knelt between his thighs and gently commanded him, “John.  You can come now.”  Then he gave John’s magnificently erect cock one final suck and John obeyed.  He erupted like a volcano inside Stephen’s thirsty mouth and Stephen drank it all, stroking John’s cock with both hands to squeeze every last drop of juice out of it until it was entirely drained and spent.  Then he licked John completely clean with rough, firm strokes of his tongue and covered the now-softening flesh with kisses.  

“How was that?” he murmured as he climbed up on the couch to kiss John on the mouth, running a hand through the man’s damp sweaty hair.

“Thank you,” was all John could manage, in a strangled whimper, as Stephen kissed him over and over.  “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“He’s such a good boy,” said Zoe affectionately, stroking John’s hair as she curled up against his shoulder, smiling at Stephen.  “So polite.  So obedient.  Don’t you think he’s a good boy?”

Stephen kissed John’s slack, open mouth.  “Oh, he’s a _very_ good boy,” he murmured.  “And you, my darling, are a very bad girl.”  Then he leaned across John’s bare, sweaty torso to bury his mouth in between Zoe’s spectacular breasts, murmuring, “John, make her come.”  And so, as Stephen unhooked Zoe’s bra and took her breasts inside his mouth, John knelt down between her spread legs and very gently kissed his way up her thighs until he reached her clit.  He had done this to Zoe before, of course, on many occasions, and he always made her come; he liked to go slow, he was gentle and thorough and attentive, leaving her relaxed and glowing and languid with pleasure.  But this time it was different.  This time he was on fire.  Stephen had changed something between them, had brought out something new in John, and he wasn’t slow and gentle at all.  He dived in, plunging his face into her cunt and devouring her hungrily.  She let out an astonished gasp as he nosed inside her like an animal, rough and forceful and insistent, eating her with a raw, desperate wildness that was new to them both.  She came almost immediately, with a high-pitched moaning cry, then collapsed, panting to catch her breath.

“Jesus, John,” she breathed heavily once she could form words again.  “We need to invite Stephen over more often.  I like you like this.”  

John pressed one last kiss against her clit, making her hips buck off the sofa, and said, “I like it too.”

“But whatever shall we do with _this_?” Zoe added, raising one flawless eyebrow as she took Stephen’s desperately erect cock in her hand.  

He grinned at her. “You’re a fixer,” he said, “you’ll think of something.  Zoe Morgan is nothing if not resourceful.”

“You know me, Stephen,” she said dryly.  “I always have a trick or two up my sleeve.”

Then she rose from the couch and moved through the open-plan space to the other side of the apartment where the lush bed sat waiting.  The men followed.  She stretched out languorously on her back, draped seductively over a heap of pillows, and held out her arms for John to come lay on top of her.

He shook his head.  “I can’t yet,” he said uncomfortably, thinking about how soft and sensitive his cock still was, nowhere near recovered enough for another round yet.  “I’m still - I’m not ready to -”

“I know, honey,” she said reassuringly.  “It’s okay. Come here.”

Tentatively, he moved over to the bed and sank down on top of Zoe’s soft, petite body.  She wrapped her arms around him, cradling him tenderly, holding him close and stroking his hair the way he liked it, while behind him, Stephen prepared for the moment he’d been waiting for since the moment he first laid eyes on John Reese in his tuxedo.  Zoe had made quiet arrangements with the hotel staff and there was a bottle of expensive lube in the nightstand.  Over John’s bared back, Zoe watched as Stephen slicked his hard cock with the glistening liquid, then knelt on the bed to straddle John’s body.  

John tensed up with a jolt in Zoe’s arms as he felt Stephen lower his weight down onto John's body.  “Shhhh,” murmured Zoe, stroking his hair and kissing his mouth.  “Just relax, and breathe.”  And then with one swift movement, Stephen pushed himself ever so slightly inside John’s ass.

John’s entire body contracted.  He thought he might burst.  The heat, the weight, the pressure, the sensation of flesh _inside_ him for the first time in longer than he could remember . . . all of it was too much.  “Oh my God, Finch,” he moaned, clutching wildly onto Zoe, who held him tenderly and caressed him, murmuring encouraging words as Stephen’s cock slid inside him deeper and deeper.

Zoe was not wrong about Reese and Finch.  They had, in fact, engaged more than once in something Harold insisted upon referring to in civilized tones as “passing the evening together,” which almost exclusively consisted of drinking very good whiskey and sucking each other’s cocks.  They did not discuss it or allude to it in front of anyone else - not out of shame, but simply because it felt so terribly _private_ , these moments and sensations that belonged only to them.  But they had never even come close to anything like this.  No matter how often John might have wondered - 

_No.  No point in finishing that thought._

But either way, John had never been fucked like this before.  Stephen began gently, but as John loosened up and the muscles in his ass shifted from a clenched defensiveness to an open, yielding hunger - as the muscle memory kicked back in from years ago, from the last time he'd done this, back when he was young and slim and there was no gray in his hair and his bed was never empty because he hadn't yet realized that terrible things happened to anyone he got close to - Stephen sped up and began to fuck John in earnest.  John swooned and melted, collapsing weakly against Zoe, who stroked his hair and murmured over and over into his ear about what a good boy he was, and it wasn’t long until the combination of Stephen’s thrusts and Zoe’s caresses roused John to hardness yet again.

Zoe felt his erection begin to press against the soft flesh of her hip and looked at him with a raised eyebrow, her face a silent question.  He shook his head.  “I can’t, I can’t,” he moaned, sweating and gasping as Stephen gripped his ass and thrust harder.  “I can’t do both.  I’m going to pass out.  Zoe, I can’t.”

“Fuck me, John,” she said insistently, shifting beneath him so that her hot, soaked cunt was right there, ready and waiting, already in position, all he had to do was let go.

And so he did.

John’s throbbing, aching cock plunged deep into Zoe’s wet cunt as she wrapped her thighs around him to draw him in further and further.  With every thrust from Stephen, John let out a ragged moan - “oh God, Finch” - and passed the thrust onto Zoe, who passed it right back in an effortless rhythm.  It didn’t take long.  Stephen came first, deep inside John, and the rush of hot liquid inside his body sent John over the edge, Zoe following a heartbeat behind him.  

“Oh God,” moaned Zoe as the two sweaty, sticky men collapsed against her on the bed.  “You boys sure know how to show a lady a good time.”  She kissed John’s mouth and ran a hand fondly over his warm, sticky ass.  “Sore?” she asked him sympathetically, and he nodded.  “But in a good way?”  He nodded again, much more emphatically, and she laughed.  “Mmmm,” she purred as he sank into her arms sleepily, Stephen at her other side.  “Good boy.”


	3. John and Stephen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The idea of Finch missing him caused a peculiar sort of power surge inside John’s heart, but he didn’t know what to do with it . . . So instead they talked about architecture, cities they’d lived in, countries where they’d loved or hated the food - neutral things that had nothing to do with the mess of emotions inside John Reese about the man here next to him and the woman downstairs and the man missing him at home and the things he wanted from all of them."

When John drifted back awake sometime later, Stephen was attempting to cajole Zoe back into bed.  “I'll be quick,” she promised him as she tied a short black silk robe around her waist and kissed Stephen’s mouth, patting his cheek.  “I have to return a couple emails and check in with my client.”

“I don’t really see why you need clothes for that,” said Stephen crossly.  “Can’t you do that from here?”

“I have to concentrate,” she laughed.  “And I don’t trust you.”

“What, you think I’m going to go down on you while you’re in the middle of a very important business call with a high-paying client?”

“Like you’ve done before?  At least three times?  Yes, I do.”  

John stretched sleepily just then, and Zoe smiled widely.  “Oh good, you’re awake,” she said.  “You two go keep each other company while I get a little work done.  I promise I’ll come join you soon.”

“You’re kicking me out of my own hotel room?” said John, rubbing his eyes.

“No.  I’m encouraging you to get your money’s worth - or Harold’s money’s worth, anyway - by sending you upstairs to the rooftop deck that makes this the most expensive hotel suite in the city.”  She kissed John’s mouth and then went over to the couch where she pulled out her laptop and poured another drink.  “Scoot,” she said, waving them away.  “I promise I won’t be more than an hour.”

"Seems there's no use arguing," conceded Stephen with a sigh, rising from the bed and making his way over to the French doors out to the balcony, where the stairs to the deck were visible.  "Shall we?"

"Sure," said John, getting up to follow him. 

Stephen made no effort to conceal his nudity and showed no embarrassment over it - they were two hundred stories up, after all, their privacy was absolute - so John tried not to either.  But he was always shy after he came, always a little timid and uncertain again.  He was confident in following orders, he knew how to make someone feel good, and when in the grip of desire he was unfailing in his ability to please a partner; but once the rush of orgasm had subsided, once there were no longer instructions to follow, there was sometimes a hollow empty feeling of vulnerability that struck him mute and made him clumsy and timid.  It wasn’t so bad with Harold, because Harold was awkward too, and by this point they’d established a rhythm.  He would seat himself in a low chair while John stood between his spread thighs, and then he would delicately wrap his lips around John’s cock; or, as Harold himself would tactfully say, “engage in mutual physical stimulation.”  John would brace himself with his hands on Harold’s shoulders and pump in and out of his skilled, deft mouth until he came, at which point Harold would swallow it all and lick him clean.  Then John would kneel between Harold’s thighs, unzip his trousers - they never undressed, ever - and suck Harold in turn.  Harold never made sounds of orgasm when he came, or any moans of pleasure.  He never lost control.  He guided John with gentle commands - “a bit lower, please, Mr. Reese” - and sometimes ventured to rest his hand affectionately on John’s head, lightly stroking his hair, which he knew John liked.  After Harold came, he would sit silently for a moment to recover, and then quietly say, “thank you, Mr. Reese.”  It was the same every time.  And if Harold ever wanted more than that from him - the way John sometimes, maybe, wondered - it was something that was never discussed.  John would suck him until he came in his mouth, Harold would politely thank him, and then John would leave.  

But Stephen wasn’t like that.  He was comfortable and relaxed and it was so _easy_ to be around him.  He was magnificently unembarrassed about strolling around naked, and John felt himself begin to relax too as he followed Stephen’s perfectly-sculpted ass and unceasing flow of chatty small talk up the marble stairs to the rooftop deck, where both of them stopped short in amazed admiration at the sight in front of them.

Neither John nor Stephen were easy men to impress, but you’d have to be dead inside not to let out a little gasp of wonderstruck delight at the view of the whole city of Dubai stretched out beneath you on all sides, two hundred and one stories down.  

“I’ve gotta hand it to Finch,” said John absently, more to himself than to Stephen as he looked out admiringly over the edge of the deck.  “He’s got an eye for a good view.”

“I’ll bet he does,” Stephen murmured in an almost inaudible tone, his admiration for the city skyline momentarily eclipsed by the sight of John’s heavily muscled back visible through the steam.  He didn’t know who this other Finch was, but he was beginning to get at least a partial idea of who he was to John.

The jacuzzi was the size of a swimming pool, submerged deep into the deck so you could stand at the edge and look straight down onto the city.  It was all rounded corners and languid curves - even the shape of it was seductive - with softly rounded benches and islands throughout.  Thick clouds of steam rose up from the bubbling water, which was scented with something spicy and floral and intoxicating.  This was not a place built for swimming, or for noisy champagne pool parties.  This was built for one singular purpose, and it was giving Stephen Finch some very interesting ideas.

“Come here,” he said to John, as he stepped down into the bubbling blue water and sat down on one of the benches, holding out his hand for John to join him.  “Let’s just talk for awhile.”

“Talk?” said John, a little uncertainly as if this might be a trick.  

Stephen laughed.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Talk.”

John hesitated for a moment, then finally followed Stephen into the steaming pool and took a seat on the same submerged bench, a chaste distance away.  

And they talked.  

They began by exchanging stories of how they met Zoe.  John was a bit cagey, but Stephen didn’t press; he was no stranger to the keeping of secrets.  He talked about meeting Zoe in law school, and about some of the jobs they’d worked together over the years.  He was working for Zoe’s client in Dubai too, managing some particularly tricky financial deal that required the expertise of a somewhat ethically flexible lawyer.  He gave nothing concrete away about the mysterious client’s identity, but John was left with the decided impression that it was very likely a member of the Saudi royal family.  They swapped stories for awhile, the kind it was safe to tell a likeable stranger; John made Stephen laugh with a slightly expurgated version of his time undercover in the suburbs with Zoe, while Stephen told him about the time he was forced to take a crash course in pretending to appreciate terrible performance art for a gig working for a billionaire philanthropist in Amsterdam.  

The man wasn’t just good at the sex part, John found himself observing.  He was good at all the rest of it too - at putting you at ease, at flirting and light touches, at easy conversation, at setting the mood.  It was impossible for John to remain tense for too long in his presence.  Stephen had brought a bottle of champagne and a pair of glasses out to the deck with him, and that helped too.  John felt himself grow dangerously close to comfortable.  Maybe even . . . happy.  All his walls were slipping down.

And then it happened.

"You've mentioned this Harold person ten or twelve times," Stephen observed, in a tone of friendly curiosity. 

“He’s . . . I work for him,” said John finally, unable to describe it more accurately but aware of what a pale representation of their complex relationship that really was. 

Stephen nodded, like he understood.  "He's a friend?"

“Don’t have a lot of those,” said John flatly, without elaborating further.  Stephen nodded, as if this confirmed something he’d already suspected.

“No,” he said.  “I don’t either.”

There was a silence.  Then, "His last name is Finch, isn't it?" Stephen asked mildly, and John froze.  "That's what I thought," he said, and there was no judgment or criticism in his voice.  He had simply wanted to know.  “I had a Finch once,” he added unexpectedly, and John stared at him.  “Her name was Olivia,” Stephen went on.  “I was like you.  I was the good soldier. I’d have walked into fire if she told me to.  But it was simpler than whatever this thing is between you and Finch, I think,” he observed thoughtfully.  “See, people like me, people like Zoe - we have people we care about, and people we fuck.  Doesn’t do anyone any good to blur those lines, because we don’t stay in one place long enough to make it worth anyone’s while to fall in love with us.  Or us with them.  So you draw the lines, and you make sure you always know what side you’re on.  Liv was my partner and my friend, but it was never anything more than that, which meant it didn’t break anything between us when I picked up and left.  But it’s different with you,” he said, and there was something like admiration in his voice, “because you did something I couldn’t do.  You planted your roots somewhere, and you _stayed._  Which makes everything far less simple.”

“I didn’t used to be a stay-in-one-place-too-long guy either,” said John.  “I’m as surprised as anyone else that I ended up with a partner.  And a team.  And a home.  And a _dog.”_  

Stephen laughed and leaned over to pour more champagne in John’s glass.  “They mean something to you, these people,” he said.  “Harold Finch.  He means something to you.”  John nodded wordlessly, not trusting his voice to speak without giving more away than he wanted to.  “I envy that, a little,” said Stephen thoughtfully.  “Tomorrow I’ll get on a plane and go do another job just like this one, while you’re on your way back to people who miss you when you’re gone.”

The idea of Finch _missing_ him caused a peculiar sort of power surge inside John’s heart, but he didn’t know what to do with it so he masked his confusion in a long swig of champagne and a stilted remark about the night sky that forced Stephen to change the subject.  Which he did, as gracefully as he did everything else.  So they talked about that for awhile instead - architecture, cities they’d lived in, countries where they’d loved or hated the food - neutral things that had nothing to do with the mess of emotions inside John Reese about the man here next to him and the woman downstairs and the man missing him at home and the things he wanted from all of them.  

They sat in the darkness, alone in the sky two hundred and one stories over the city, clouds of steam floating around them and causing their skin to bead with sweat.  Stephen moved closer to John bit by bit, very easily and naturally and so subtly that John hardly noticed it until the man was close enough to touch.  Stephen leaned one arm on the back wall of the jacuzzi, very casually, and his fingers just barely brushed the nape of John’s neck, which made him shiver.  After a moment, his other hand found its way to John’s knee.  

And for a long time, that’s all it was. They kept talking, the conversation slowing to a natural standstill, the energy between them still comfortable even as it became more and more charged with heat.  Words faded between them into gentle silence, and for awhile they just sat quietly, connected by the soft touch of Stephen’s hand on John’s neck and the other one on his knee which slid higher and higher as Stephen moved in closer to him.  Then, “come here,” said Stephen in a soft urgent whisper, and pulled John from the bench onto his lap.  John straddled him comfortably, nearly weightless as he floated against him, their soft cocks brushing gently against each other.

_"You put your arms around me, and I'm home . . . "_

_Get it together, Stephen._

“I don’t _do_ this,” he murmured fiercely, more to himself than aloud, and there was something unexpectedly naked in it that startled John.

“Do what?” John asked.  “Meet a stranger at a consulate party and follow him back to his hotel room to pull off his underwear with your teeth while Zoe watches?”

Stephen grinned up at him.  “Oh, _that_ ,” he said dismissively.  “I do that all the time.”  John laughed.  “No, I didn’t mean that part,” said Stephen, suddenly serious again, running his fingers through John’s wet hair.  John could feel Stephen’s heart pounding where their chests pressed together.  

“Then what did you mean?”

Stephen answered by gliding hot wet hands up John’s back, pulling him closer.  “There are people I care about and people I go to bed with,” he explained.  “That’s how it’s always been.  It’s safer that way.  It’s the only way I know how to be.  Nobody has ever stood in the middle of those two lines except for Zoe Morgan.” He stopped.  “And yet here you are,” he said softly, “a man I’ve never met before in my life, and half of me wants to throw you up against the wall and fuck you until you scream for mercy, while the other half of me just wants . . . “  He looked up at John with some heavy emotion in his eyes.  “To hold you,” he finished so quietly John almost couldn’t hear him.

“Night’s young,” pointed out John.  “No reason we can’t do both.”

And Stephen’s face lit up like the sun breaking through clouds, and he wrapped John in his arms.   They sat like that for a long time, John comfortably straddling Stephen’s lap with the man’s arms tight around his back, his head nestled in Stephen’s shoulder, before they both felt each other begin to grow hard at the same time, their cocks swelling and tightening against each other where their bodies pressed together.

“God help me, John Reese,” said Stephen, pulling John’s head down to kiss him.  “In my whole life I’ve never wanted anyone who wasn’t Zoe Morgan this goddamn badly.”

“Then take me,” said John before he could stop himself.  “I’m right here.”

When Stephen kissed him, it sent an electric current through both their bodies with a violent jolt.  Stephen’s lips were soft and his tongue was insistent and hungry and John melted into him, becoming soft and yielding inside his arms.  The sensation of John’s hard, hot body sinking with blissful submission into his made Stephen’s cock pulse and surge with heat, and he ground his hips against John’s, pulling him down harder against his lap.  One hand slid down John’s back to grasp his ass, while the other drifted to his cock.  “Do you want me to touch you here?” he whispered to John, who could only nod.  So Stephen grasped the heavy, soft flesh in the palm of his hand and began to stroke it.  John’s breathing began to quicken as he rocked back and forth atop Stephen’s lap, burying his face in the man’s throat just at the place where his beard became soft skin, his quiet whimpers of pleasure setting Stephen’s whole body on fire.

“I hate to break up the party,” came Zoe’s amused voice from behind them, “but I’m going to be about another hour.  I hope you two can entertain yourselves without me a little while longer.”  John, embarrassed for reasons he couldn’t quite name, froze and did not look up from Stephen’s shoulder. But Stephen was, as always, impossible to faze.

“I think we can manage,” he said dryly, and if John had looked up just then he would have seen Zoe and Stephen exchange a wordless dialogue that had something to do with John, the pool, and the large wooden chest sitting in the far corner of the deck just beside it.  

“Looks like she left us a present,” said Stephen, his voice full of curiosity, as the door closed behind Zoe.  “Let’s go look.”  He took John’s hand, as natural and innocent as a child, and they swam across to the other side to look inside the mysterious container.

There was simply no other way to say it than simply to say it: the trunk was packed with everything you would need for a night of amazing aquatic sex in that steaming pool.  There were huge fluffy towels and robes, comfortable padded mats, an arsenal of waterproof sex toys, a bottle of lube, and a host of other goodies.  

Stephen looked at John.

John looked at Stephen.

Stephen pulled a large, squishy, comfortable rubber mat with a non-skid base out of the trunk and laid it out on a wide, flat island, ringed by a low bench, in the middle of the pool, where the water was about waist-deep.  When John stretched his body out onto the mat, the bubbles reached just a few inches up the side of his body, and his arms dangled over the sides into the water.  Here at the center of the pool, the rest of the world was nearly obscured by the clouds of thick, hot steam which surrounded them, making everything warm and languid and intoxicating.  Stephen’s cock was hard as iron by now; he poured a liberal splash of lube into the palm of his hands and stroked his cock with it until he glistened.  Then he straddled John very gently and leaned down to kiss his neck and whisper into his ear.  “Tell me what you want me to do,” he murmured as his slippery hands caressed John’s ass, making the man whimper in ecstasy.

“I want you to fuck me, Finch,” John moaned.

This time, when Stephen pushed his cock inside, he wasn’t slow and gentle like before.  He thrust smoothly inside, deep and firm, and John’s hips rose up to meet him as he begged incoherently for more, more, _more_.  Stephen wanted to fuck John hard, and John wanted to let him, and the thrusts came fast and frantic, sending them both spinning.  But it wasn’t enough for Stephen, who realized how badly he wanted to see John’s face this time; so he rolled the man onto his back, climbed between his knees, slid back inside, and pinned his arms down.  Then he lowered his head and kissed John until he couldn’t breathe.

It was pure bliss.  The pool was hot and steamy all around them, causing sweat to drip down their bare chests and trickle down from their wet hair.  Everything was slippery and wet and warm.  The sensation of being dominated completely - his body pressed under the other man's weight, his wrists held tight in Stephen's powerful grip, his mouth swallowed up, his ass pounded by Stephen’s thick, heavy cock - nearly destroyed John.  He began to melt and swoon and dissolve, his body opening completely to yield itself.  “Please, Finch,” he panted over and over as an absolutely earth-shattering orgasm began to build up inside him.  “Please.   _Please_.”  Stephen could sense the mounting explosion, could feel John begin to go weak-kneed and shaky all over, so he gripped John’s cock in his hands and seized the man’s mouth with his own as he began to fuck him harder, faster, harder, faster, feeling the swell of ecstatic pleasure rise and crest and burst inside them both at the same time until they cried out as one and then collapsed, arms locked around each other, trembling and shivering.

They slid down off the island into the water, onto the low bench against the wall of the pool.  Stephen leaned back against the wall and held out his arms to John, who floated over to join him.  Stephen pulled John onto his lap, wrapping him in his strong arms.  Buoyed by the water, weightless and dizzy, John melted into Stephen’s chest, allowing himself to be cradled tenderly like a child, held close with something nearer raw, unguarded affection than anyone had shown John in a long time.  Stephen held him and stroked his hair and kissed his mouth over and over, murmuring softly to him.  “Such a good boy,” he whispered, as John curled up against him.  “You’re such a good boy.”


	4. Stephen and Zoe and John (and Harold)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “'While I admit I had a great many reservations at the outset,' Harold observed to Bear as he watched, 'under the circumstances one does find oneself considering the old adage, ‘When in Rome.’”

It had only taken Zoe about forty-five minutes to finish her work; by the time she padded silently in her bare feet up the stairs to the rooftop deck she was perfectly ready to join them, but she was stopped in her tracks by the intoxicating sight of the two men in each other’s arms, steam rising off their body, mouths tangled together in a frantic kiss.  

_Damn._

She’d watched from the shadows for a long time, silently stroking her still-damp clit until she came with a wordless shudder.  Then she broke the silence to address them (and signal to Stephen where the hotel staff had stashed the supplies she’d thoughtfully prearranged for herself and John to enjoy later).  But rather than return to the living room to resume work, she’d had a different idea altogether - involving somebody else named Finch.

Somebody who - like herself - might like to watch.

On the other side of the glass door which led to the stairs back to the hotel suite, Zoe and her iPad stood in the shadows with a perfectly-illuminated view of the two men in the pool.  Stephen had just lowered John onto the island and was preparing his cock to fuck him.

“Ms. Morgan,” said Harold Finch, his face on the screen of her iPad stern and disapproving, “I do not appreciate being used as part of a deception you are playing on your friend and Mr. Reese.”

“It’s only a little white lie, Harold.”

“It certainly is not.”

The moaning of the two men became more and more audible through the glass.  “Oh my, Ms. Morgan,” said Harold uncomfortably.  “I am not entirely certain Mr. Reese would appreciate our disturbing such an . . . intimate moment.  Turn off this camera immediately or I will be forced to disconnect this video call.”

“Oh, relax, Harold,” she said dismissively.  “Besides, I wouldn’t have brought you up here if I didn’t think this was something you should see.”

“Oh God, Finch!” came John’s voice, clear as a bell from the pool outside.  “Oh, Finch, _harder._  Harder.  Yes, yes, right there, _oh God._   Yes, Finch, _yes.”_

Harold was silent for a long time before quietly clearing his throat.  “My goodness,” he said.  “I must admit to being quite flattered.”

“I told you this was something you wouldn’t want to miss.”

“Yes.  Well.  Be that as it may, I am indeed forced to admit that - while I certainly could not have anticipated this outcome when I answered your call just now - I am not at all disappointed in the results of John’s offer to accompany you to Dubai.”

“You can just say thank you, Harold,” she said dryly.  “He’s going to come home with a couple new tricks, I hope you’re ready.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Ms. Morgan,” Harold began stiffly, but fell silent as they watched Stephen flip John onto his back and slide his cock into John’s ass to fuck him from above.   _“Oh,”_ said Harold quietly, and it wouldn’t have taken a Zoe Morgan to figure out what he was thinking.  It was written all over his face.

They watched in silence after that.  Zoe felt her entire body grow soft and hot and wet with desire as Stephen fucked John just a few dozen feet away from them.  She could see Harold’s face on the screen, could see the polite mask on his face failing to cover the expression of naked longing visible in his parted lips and intense gaze.  John came, loudly and explosively, Stephen right behind him, and then they sank back down into the water to collapse into each other’s arms.

Zoe let out a low appreciative whistle, but was incapable of more words than that.  Harold was silent for a long time.  Finally he spoke.  “Ms. Morgan, I have no wish to detain you from your . . . previous engagement,” he began.

“You mean you’re guessing it’s my turn now,” she said impishly, “and you don’t want to watch me fuck them.”

“Well,” he began, then coughed awkwardly.  “I.  Well.  Yes.  I suppose.  I have no wish to intrude upon your privacy.”

“With you boys,” she said, setting the iPad on its stand in the glass window, “it would never be an intrusion.”  Then she tugged once at the belt of her silken robe, letting it fall to the floor, and watching in satisfaction as the face in her screen went slack-jawed with awe and barely-concealed desire, his eyes raking up and down her naked body.

“Your move, Harold,” she said, and as she opened the glass door and stepped out to where John was now curled up in Stephen’s lap, she knew Harold was staring at her ass as she walked away.

* * * * *

After Zoe left, Harold found himself in an agony of indecision.  “On the one hand,” he explained to Bear, who was curled up at his feet, “I do feel I ought to disconnect the camera.  John may have an intimate relationship with Ms. Morgan but I certainly do not, and I do feel some concern over potential future complications.”  Bear chomped thoughtfully on his bone in response.  “On the other hand,” he countered thoughtfully, “it could hardly be construed as invasive when she did offer an explicit invitation.   _Very_ explicit, one might say.”  Bear chomped in agreement to this too, which was no help.  In the end - his entire body charged with an electric combination of curiosity, guilt, uncertainty and desire - Harold found himself unable to turn the camera off, and watched in nervous anticipation as Zoe made her way to the pool.  

Zoe’s footsteps were silent on the damp deck floor, and for a long time she stood at the edge of the pool, steam partially blocking her from the boys’ view, and just watched them.  They were curled up together, recuperating and panting a little, and there was such a sweetness to the way John rested his head trustingly on Stephen’s shoulder that Zoe felt her heart began to flutter in her chest.

Oh, no.  Emotions.

_Fuck._

_Get it together, Zoe,_ she commanded herself firmly.  Zoe Morgan did not do vulnerable feelings shit.  Neither, for that matter, did Stephen Finch.  They’d always liked that about each other, how clean and simple everything was.  And yet there was Stephen, cradling John in his arms and kissing his hair, and here was Zoe, feeling herself dissolve at the sight of it, and _none of this was in the plan._

What had John Reese done to them?

Swallowing hard and determined to restore normalcy, she stepped out of the shadows over to where they could see her.  “I see you two have been keeping busy,” she said approvingly.

“You were certainly missed, darling,” said Stephen, flashing her a cocky grin.  “But don’t be jealous.  We’re perfectly ready to pay all our attention to you now.”

“Looks like someone’s paying attention already,” she observed, smiling at John, who could not tear his eyes from her naked body as she stepped slowly and seductively down into the water.  She stepped up onto the island where Stephen had just fucked John and sprawled out onto the soft padded mat, reclining back like a sea goddess, all glistening wet breasts and steaming skin and damp tangled hair.

“Come and get it, boys,” she ordered.

It’s awfully difficult to run underwater, and the two men’s agonized desperation to get to Zoe’s naked body while chest-deep in steaming water made them clumsy.  Stephen tripped first, splashing a huge wave of water onto John beside him, causing them both to collide.  “Okay, please don’t kill yourselves,” Zoe said in a voice of great amusement.  “We don’t have to check out until eleven a.m., there’s plenty of time.”

“If you didn’t want to drive me too crazy to see straight, darling,” observed Stephen, “you shouldn’t be lying there wet and naked and waiting to be ravished.”

“I’ll be wet and naked wherever the hell I want, Stephen Finch,” said Zoe with teasing indignation.  

“Yeah, don’t tell her what to do,” reproached John.  “Zoe is an empowered twenty-first century woman and if she wants to be wet and naked -”

“That’s my boy,” said Zoe archly.  

“Hey now,” protested Stephen, “I never said I didn’t want her wet and naked.”

“You’re losing points here, Finch, you better step up your game.”

“Less talk, more fucking me,” said Zoe firmly, “or I’m going to have to take matters into my own hands.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” said Stephen, who knelt on the stone bench surrounding the island, bringing his face just level with her cunt.  John took up an identical position beside him, and then they set to work.

John had been too lost in his own pleasure the first time Stephen went down on Zoe to pay much attention to the other man's masterful techniques, but he was all attention now.  He’d never done this with someone else, of course, but he prided himself on being a quick study and reading nonverbal cues well.  Stephen took the lead, silently conveying what to do and where to go with his tongue, and John followed.  Zoe’s moans turned very nearly to screams as two tongues lapped at her cunt in perfect harmony; her hands, resting on each of their heads, grew wild and frantic, fisting at their hair and pressing them down further to capture more.  Pleased with his pupil’s progress, Stephen sometimes paused in his ministrations for a moment to press a sticky, wet kiss on John’s mouth as they suckled together at Zoe’s clit.  Beneath the churning, bubbling surface of the water, he slipped a hand over John’s thigh to firmly grasp his cock and begin to stroke, causing John’s body to throb with sensation and increasing the urgency with which he ate and drank Zoe.

To Harold Finch, watching from his computer thousands of miles away through the screen of Zoe’s iPad, perfectly positioned to frame the scene like some kind of majestic erotic painting, the sight was indescribable.  The rise and fall of her glorious breasts as her breath came hard and fast, the way her hips rose off the mat into their mouths, the way her luscious hair trailed down into the water, the way the two dark heads between her thighs moved in perfect unison.

“While I admit I had a great many reservations at the outset,” Harold observed to Bear as he watched, “under the circumstances one does find oneself considering the old adage, ‘When in Rome.’”  

Bear’s enthusiastic chomping on his rawhide bone seemed sufficient approval for Harold, whose hands moved deftly beneath the computer desk - out of sight of the screen, even if someone had been looking (which nobody was) - to unbutton his trousers and lift free his heavy, rapidly-stiffening cock.  “When in Rome,” he said again, and as Zoe Morgan’s orgasm crashed over her with a wild, desperate cry, his hand slowly began to slide up and down.

Zoe had no idea that thousands of miles away a _third_ man was being driven to madness by the sight of her naked body; she was too busy trying to recover from the shattering orgasm that almost made her faint.  Her limp, spent body slid weakly into the steaming water, where John caught her in his arms, cradling her close.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, running a hand through the wet tendrils of her long dark hair.  “You look like a mermaid.”

And there was something inside his voice - something that was akin to adoration and wonder - that sent shivers up and down Zoe’s spine and made her heart pulse with something that was deeper and more weighted than simply desire.  And so when she kissed him then - unable to stop herself - her mouth fell open beneath his and she sank into his arms and the dim distant part of her mind that was shouting at her to stop this, to run away, to keep that line in the sand clear and avoid crossing it, was silenced utterly by the way it felt to press the palm of his hand over his heart and feel the way it pounded for her.  This was not the plan.  None of this was in the plan.  Not for her, and not for Stephen.  They were not these people.  This was not what they did.  Zoe liked John, and Jesus Christ did she ever enjoy fucking John, but _caring_ about John?   _Feeling_ something for him?  All of this was new.  

But she couldn’t stop herself.  The way he looked at her - the unguarded, smitten look of devotion in his eyes - was irresistible.  It was intoxicating to see him like this, without his defensive walls up.  He was at her mercy, his entire body trembling with want.  His hands tangled in her wet hair as his mouth moved beneath hers, and she felt Stephen glide up behind them to take them both inside his arms as they kissed.  John’s mouth tasted like champagne and Zoe’s mouth tasted like whiskey and Stephen’s wet skin smelled of sex and expensive cologne and the steam wrapped them up in its fluttering warm embrace as the iron walls they used to keep the rest of the world at arms’ length dissolved completely, leaving all three of them entirely open and vulnerable to each other.  Zoe melted into John’s kiss and John melted into Stephen’s arms and Stephen melted into both of them as his wet hands trailed drops of steaming water down both their naked backs.  Then Stephen shifted position, moving directly behind John and wrapping his arms tightly around the man’s waist, burying his mouth momentarily in John’s neck - sending fire into John’s swelling cock - before gently pushing John’s head lower to take one of Zoe’s breasts in his mouth as he found the other.

Still weak in the knees from her orgasm, Zoe swooned a little at the feeling of two rough tongues lapping at her nipples and came so near losing her balance that Stephen had to catch her in his arms.  “Easy,” he said with a teasing smile as he carefully lowered her down onto one of the submerged benches, then motioned John to follow his lead as they took up their positions on either side of her.  

Once again, John demonstrated a true gift for following orders as he mimicked Stephen’s movements perfectly as Stephen made careful, thorough love to Zoe’s right breast.  When Stephen ran his tongue in firm, insistent circles around Zoe’s nipple, John did the same on the other side; or when he leaned in close to suckle at the rosy bud, or press wet kisses all over the rounded curves.  Zoe moaned, tangling her hands once more in their hair and pressing them close to her, savoring the feel of having a hungry man at each breast, consuming her utterly.  Stephen had once made her come just from this; he hadn’t even taken off her jeans or touched her below the waist, simply pulled off her sweater and bra and dived in with his mouth, and yet she’d come so hard she’d seen stars.  And John was a quick study, picking up all Stephen’s tricks, doubling Zoe’s pleasure in indescribable ways.  His entire existence had shrunk down to this one thing, to the way Zoe’s left breast felt and tasted inside his mouth and the frantic sounds she made as they devoured her.

Zoe’s body was beginning to swell towards orgasm again, just from the pressure of their kisses.  She was drenched from more than just the steaming water, and so aroused she was practically faint.  Stephen pulled away finally - John following his lead obediently - and said in a tone of wry amusement, “Don’t fill up on appetizers, darling, we haven’t even served the main course yet.”

“Mmmm,” sighed Zoe, practically licking her lips in anticipation, “if this is only the preview, I’m dying to see what you have in store that’s better than two men on my breasts.”

“How about two men somewhere else?” murmured Stephen, and Zoe moaned.  Stephen sat John down on the bench, lifted Zoe effortlessly and sat her on John’s lap.  He reached down to fondle John’s desperately-erect cock for a few moments, and crook a teasing, probing finger inside Zoe’s soaked cunt, before gripping John’s cock in his fist and guiding it firmly inside her.  Both John and Zoe gasped - her, at how hot and hard he was, somehow even more than before, his cock stretching her cunt to the limit, and him at the unbelievable wetness that pulled him in deeper and deeper still.  Stephen stood behind Zoe, wrapping his arms around her and massaging her nipples in both hands; she sank back into his arms, resting her head on his bare chest, letting him and the water support all her weight.  “I think he’d like you to ride him, darling,” he murmured into Zoe’s ear, and held her firmly so she could do just that.

“Oh God, John,” she cried as she rode up and down on his massive cock, feeling it plunge in and out of her, hitting her G-spot over and over.  

"Zoe," he moaned in response, bending forward to capture more of her, his hips rising off the bench with each thrust as he buried his face between her breasts, kissing the hot damp skin as he fucked her more frantically than he had ever fucked her before.

Stephen remained firmly in command, which was a decided turn-on for all of them.  “Rub your clit,” he murmured to Zoe, who slipped a hand down between her thighs to stroke herself as John thrust in and out just below.  “Suck her nipples,” he commanded John, who shifted his focus from the hollow between her breasts to the hard little buds, making Zoe cry out in ecstasy.  And then, “stand up,” he told John, “but stay inside her.” So John’s hands clamped around Zoe’s perfect round ass, holding her in place as he rose to his feet, surging powerfully upwards inside her and making her scream.  

“If you want what I think you want,” murmured Stephen, who stood with his whole body pressed up against Zoe’s back, “you only have to ask.”

“You know exactly what I want,” she purred at him.

From the other side of the glass, Harold couldn’t hear the words they exchanged, but he swallowed hard at the sight of John wrapping his arms around the woman’s petite frame, thrusting desperately into her as behind them, Stephen began to carefully and thoroughly lube up his cock once more.  Harold kept the soft wet sounds of friction as he stroked his own cock, and the breathy little sighs he emitted as he watched John thrust, as quiet and discreet as he could, to avoid disturbing Bear.  Even in canine form, this was not a moment in which Harold wanted company.  “Oh God, John,” moaned Zoe from the pool in Dubai, and back in New York, Harold’s hand moved faster and faster.

Erect cock now glistening with lube, Stephen returned to the others and wrapped his arms around them both as he pressed against Zoe’s back.  “I’ve been quite impressed with your teamwork skills all night,” he said to John, who could not repress a shy but proud smile.  “Are you ready for a more, shall we say, _advanced_ lesson?”

“Always happy to learn something from a good teacher,” drawled John in a low voice, and watched Zoe’s face contract into an expression of pure ecstasy as Stephen’s cock entered her ass.  This was one of the ways Zoe liked it best, which Stephen knew; he didn’t have to go slow or be gentle, he could plunge in deep and send her to the stratosphere with the way his cock stretched her to bursting.  This was all new territory to John, but the way it felt to fuck Zoe with the pressure of another man’s cock inside her at the same time was intoxicating. Zoe collapsed forward against his chest, nearly sobbing with pleasure, as John’s eyes met Stephen’s over the top of her bent head.  

“Oh, John,” murmured Stephen between panting breaths, and he leaned forward (sending his cock deeper into Zoe) to kiss him.  “Oh God, John, I can feel your cock, you feel so good.”  He thrust into Zoe over and over.  “Doesn’t he feel good, darling?” he murmured.  But Zoe had lost the power of speech.  Her hands clutched at John’s shoulders as she trembled against him, her eyes wide and hungry and desperately locked on his as they gazed at each other, forehead to forehead while twin cocks plunged in and out in an effortlessly natural rhythm as though they’d been doing this all their lives.

“Zoe,” murmured John.  “Can I touch you?”

She nodded breathlessly, and his hand moved lower, sliding between their bodies as he thrust against her.  His index finger circled the bud of her clit faster and faster, and the three-way stimulation from her clit, cunt and ass was simply too much for Zoe to withstand.  “John, I’m coming,” she tried to say, but no words would come.  She could not catch her breath enough to speak.  But John understood her - John always understood her - and wrapped his other arm around her waist even tighter as his finger continued to tickle her aching clit.

“John, you can come inside her now,” Stephen said, then pressed a kiss against Zoe’s collarbone.  “Brace yourself, darling,” he whispered in her ear, and then all three men - the one inside her ass, the one inside her cunt, and the one sitting thousands of miles away stroking himself beneath his desk - came with a heavy groan at the same time.

Bear looked up for a moment, startled by the unfamiliar sound and scent of Harold’s orgasm, but saw nothing of interest and returned to chomping on his rawhide bone.

Zoe came a heartbeat after John and Stephen, toppling over the edge as they were both beginning to come down from the heights.  She came and came and came, falling forward into John’s arms as Stephen pulled out of her ass with a heavy gasp.  John caught her and held her up, feeling her shaking and trembling and panting in his arms, feeling her heart pounding where her body pressed up against his chest.  She looked up at him then, tried to form a flippant and flirtatious remark about how good he’d felt, but the words died on her tongue as she saw the way he was looking at her.  His shyness had begun to set in again, the way it always did after he came, and he held her in his arms with one hand on her lower back and one tangled in her hair as he murmured, “I hope that was . . . was that . . . did it feel good?”  She couldn’t answer.  “I just want to make you feel good, Zoe,” he said in a low voice heavy with emotion that shook her all the way down to the core.  Even though both of them had their feet planted firmly on the tiled floor, Zoe could not shake the sensation of falling - or the feeling that John was falling too.  

 _“Good?”_ she finally said, with a breathless little laugh, trying to pull the walls back up, trying to find sassy wry Zoe Morgan again, trying to regain control.  “Honey, I think you boys broke me.”  But it was just a line of dialogue, it wasn’t real, and they all knew it, because she was more shaken up than she’d ever been.  Stephen always made her come, and so did John, they both always felt good, but the two of them together had completely unstitched her and it wasn’t just about the incredible fucking she had just received, it was something that came from a deeper and far more unsettling place.

She kissed John hungrily and patted his cheek as she pulled away, smiling.  “When you get home,” she said, “I think Harold is going to be full of interesting new ideas.

John blushed furiously, as Stephen watched with enormous interest.  Whatever the thing was between him and Harold, it was clear that John hadn’t had any idea that Zoe knew.

“Don’t worry, John,” she said lightly.  “He doesn’t seem like the jealous type at all.  He was quite enjoying the show earlier, as a matter of fact.”

“He was _what_?”

John swallowed hard as Zoe pointed over to the window where they could clearly see her iPad propped up, Harold’s face on the screen.  Stephen gave a merry wave, calling out, “I’m Stephen!  You must be the other Finch I’ve heard so much about!”  But neither Harold nor John paid him any notice.  Their eyes were locked on each other.  Harold was staring at John, who was still breathing heavily, recovering from his orgasm, and John was staring back at Harold - who, he noticed, was breathing the same way.

John knew the look on Harold’s face after he had just come.

Harold hadn’t merely been _watching_ them, and John knew it.  It made his entire body go hot and cold all over.  It changed things between them, knowing that Harold had seen a man fuck him, and it made him very much wonder what Harold had been thinking, whether the thing that made Harold come had been the idea of John and Stephen, or John and Zoe . . . or John and himself.


	5. Harold and John and Zoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “'Mr. Reese,' he began, 'I find myself in the difficult position of struggling to express aloud many desires which are unfamiliar territory to me, and am at rather a loss as to how I ought to begin without venturing into a degree of frankness which might, perhaps, cause discomfort to all parties.' 
> 
> 'In English, Finch.'"

 

It was after three by the time they finally made their way back down the stairs to tumble in a heap into the large king-sized bed in John’s suite, where they all sank instantly into a deep sleep.  John woke a little after nine to find himself in the middle of the bed, with a still-sleeping Zoe curled up on one side of him and a wide-awake Stephen on the other side.  Stephen was sitting up against the headboard wearing reading glasses and immersed in a stack of papers.  

John yawned and stretched, careful not to disturb Zoe, and caught Stephen’s attention.

“Morning,” said Stephen.  “Breakfast will be here at ten, if you’re hungry.”

“Starved,” John admitted.

“I should think so,” said Stephen dryly, “you got quite a workout,” and John felt a blush creep over his face.  Stephen set his papers down.  “Can I offer you some advice about something that’s none of my business?” he said suddenly.

“Sure,” said John, his voice a little wary.

“You have to tell him,” said Stephen.  “He doesn’t know.”

John felt his entire body go cold all over, but he had too much respect for Stephen to demur, to deny it, to pretend he did not know exactly who - and what - Stephen was talking about.

“It’s all right,” he went on, his voice reassuring.  "You didn't know either.  You weren’t keeping it from him deliberately.  But you know now.  Both of you.  You’re not used to asking for what you want, John, you’re used to following orders.  But you didn’t see the way he looked at you.  You didn’t see what I saw.”

“What did you see?” murmured John huskily.  

Stephen took off his reading glasses, set them on the bedside table, and sank back down onto the soft pillows, lying so close to John that their noses were practically touching, and laid an affectionate hand on John’s cheek.  “Christ, you really don’t see it, do you?” he said in wonderment.  “You have no idea how you make people feel.”

John swallowed hard.  “Then you’d better tell me.”

Stephen's warm, soft lips brushed insistently against John's own, full of tenderness, for a long moment before he pulled away.  “You make people who insist on never falling in love come closer than they’ve ever come in their lives,” he said.  “You did it three times in one night.”

There was nothing John could say in response to this.  There was something so raw in Stephen’s voice that he felt his heart begin to pound in his chest.

“We’re going to go our separate ways at the airport,” said Stephen, “and truthfully there’s no way to know if I’m ever going to see you again, so I have nothing to lose by telling you this.  You put down roots for a reason, John.  You were running all your life and then one day you stopped.  I could ask you why that was - who that was for - but you already know.”  He cast a smiling glance over at Zoe’s sleeping back.  “And if you can do it for him,” said Stephen, “she might do it for you.”

“Zoe Morgan doesn’t stay in one place long enough for that."

“Zoe Morgan doesn’t do a lot of things,” Stephen observed.  “You changed the rules on everybody.”  

John was prevented from responding by the pinging of a soft alarm on Stephen’s phone.  “Half an hour until breakfast,” he said.  “I was going to go take a shower.”  He smiled impishly.  “Care to join me?”

Thirty minutes later, after an irritable Zoe was roused from slumber to answer the door for room service herself, that’s where she found them.  Following the sound of loud, urgent groaning she made her way to the bathroom where underneath the hot, steamy spray of the luxurious marble shower, Stephen was giving John one last, glorious fuck up against the glass wall.  

“Breakfast is ready,” she said, sipping her coffee and watching as John braced his palms on the glass and Stephen thrust into him from behind.  “How close are you?”

“You could speed things along,” observed John between gasps.  

Zoe sighed.  “Oh, very well,” she said, seating herself on the side of the tub to face them and shedding her silk robe.  She sipped her absurdly expensive single-origin espresso from its delicate china cup in one hand and stroked her clit with the other, causing the boys’ already erect cocks to swell even further.  She made herself come with brisk efficiency, and the sight of it brought both John and Stephen along with her so rapidly that their coffee had not even cooled before they followed her out to the living room.

* * * * *

If you had asked him, Harold would have said that it had always been his plan to return on the private jet to pick up Mr. Reese and Ms. Morgan in Dubai.  He would have denied the part where he switched off his computer to block out the sight of John’s incredulous staring face where he stood waist-deep in steaming water, took several deep breaths to steady himself, sent a hasty text message to Ms. Shaw asking her to look in on the dog for the next two days, and bolted to the airport to catch the private jet before its departure.  He would have denied the seventeen hours he spent alone on a silent plane (Harold hated flight attendants and staff on private jets, they disrupted his privacy and made him feel obligated to engage in small talk, which he then resented) thinking of nothing but Mr. Reese’s naked body, Mr. Reese’s dark eyes heavy with desire, Mr. Reese’s panting moans.  (He allowed himself once, and once only - around hour nine - to disappear into the jet's luxurious private bathroom and allow himself a moment of relief, stroking his iron-hard cock until he came with a heavy sigh into a snow-white Egyptian cotton towel.  It felt indelicate, no matter how badly his thoughts tortured him, to engage in manual stimulation more than once on the same flight.)

Yet after seventeen hours of being unable to extricate Mr. Reese from his thoughts, he still arrived in Dubai without the faintest idea what, in fact, he would actually _say._

“Mr. Reese, Ms. Morgan,” he said awkwardly as they stepped onto the plane.

“Good to see you, Finch,” said John in a voice equally uncomfortable, realizing instantly that he should have said "Harold."  The sound of John's low rumbling voice saying the name "Finch" sent everyone back to the events of the night before, making everything worse.

But they were reckoning without Zoe Morgan.  A night’s sleep, a good cup of coffee, and an orgasm before breakfast had restored all her equanimity and she was more than equal to the situation.  While Harold and John stared mutely at each other - Harold unable to stop thinking about watching John and John equally unable to stop thinking about Harold watching him, but neither of them sure how, or even if, to bring it up - Zoe took charge.

“Nice ride you got here, Harold,” she said cheerfully, kissing him on the cheek as she sauntered inside with her carry-on luggage.  She strolled around the cabin of the impossibly luxurious jet, giving herself a tour and commenting on the decor and furnishings to fill the silence.  Her steady stream of casual chatter helped ease the tension between the men, who were both profoundly grateful to be spared a seventeen-hour flight in uncomfortable silence.

“Thank you, Ms. Morgan,” Harold said finally, finding it significantly easier to address her instead of John.  

“Is it yours?”

“A rental, but one I have used many times. Its layout suits my travel preferences quite well.”

“It’s like a hotel room,” she observed.  “You’d hardly know you were on a plane.”

“I’d guess that’s the idea,” said John, helping himself to a beer from the ice bucket located on the velvet-and-mahogany wet bar in the cabin’s living room.  There were four plush chairs at the front of the cabin, for passengers to buckle themselves in during takeoff and landing, but once altitude had been reached they could more or less move about freely.  The bulk of the cabin’s space was taken up by this large open-plan living/dining room space, featuring both the fully-stocked bar and an opulent buffet for four, as well as comfortable tables and chairs for working or reading.  Adjacent to this space was the gleaming chrome-and-glass bathroom, and a door through which Zoe could see a plush king-sized bed upholstered in gray suede, piled high with fluffy white pillows.  Zoe had immediately noted the lack of flight staff save the pilot, who had briefly come out to help stow their luggage and walk them through the safety protocols before disappearing once more into his entirely separate compartment - where, since there was no co-pilot, he would remain for the entirety of the flight.  

The first hour was, it must be admitted, painful.  John and Harold were fumbling and awkward, unable to look at each other, let alone exchange words, leaving all the labor of silence-filling to Zoe, with no relief from either of them.  Nobody was capable of more than a few desultory fragments of conversation.

By the time the plane had reached altitude and Zoe had bolted from her seat to pour the second drink she had been craving since they first strapped themselves into their seats to stare awkwardly at each other on the tarmac, she had quite simply had it.

“All right,” she said firmly as she knocked back two fingers of whiskey and returned to her seat.  “This has got to stop.”

“What does?” asked John.

“It’s clear that we need to talk about last night,” said Zoe, and both men froze.

It was Harold who broke the silence first.  “Ms Morgan,” he began, “I hardly think this is the time or the place for discussions of such an intimate nature.”

“I think it’s exactly the time and place,” she retorted.  “I’m not sitting here for sixteen more hours with two idiots who can’t even make eye contact with each other.  Even _I’ll_ get sick of the sound of my own voice by then.”  This elicited the ghost of a smile from Harold, who finally met her eyes.  “And besides,” she said, looking at him intently, “if you never say what you want out loud, you’ll never, ever get it.”

 _Oh,_ thought John, a surge of astonishment rushing through his chest as Harold looked down and away, nervous and shy again.

“Ask for what you want,” she said in a low voice, looking at Harold but speaking to both of them.  Beside her, she could hear the sound of John’s labored breathing.  They were both gazing intently at Harold, waiting.

A long, long moment passed before Harold looked up and met John’s eyes for the first time.  He swallowed hard and took a deep breath before speaking.  “Mr. Reese,” he began, “I find myself in the difficult position of struggling to express aloud many desires which are unfamiliar territory to me, and am at rather a loss as to how I ought to begin without venturing into a degree of frankness which might, perhaps, cause discomfort to all parties.”

“In English, Finch,” said John, but his voice was fond and a smile teased at the corners of his mouth.

“Very well, then,” said Harold, steeling himself, “if you prefer candor - I confess that, while I have always received tremendous pleasure from your ministrations I was unprepared for how . . . stimulating I would find it to observe you on the receiving end of such pleasures from another.”

“You mean you liked watching Stephen fuck him,” said Zoe.

“I - well - that is - yes, Ms. Morgan, if you prefer the more colloquial terminology.  Yes.  I liked it very much.  I experienced a great deal of indecision as to whether it was unethical to observe such private acts with an invitation from only one of the involved parties, knowing the other two were unaware of my presence; yet somehow I was unable to bring myself to look away.  I apologize if my intrusion caused you any discomfort, Mr. Reese.  But in the interests of full disclosure, Ms. Morgan is correct.  I enjoyed it very much - perhaps a great deal more than I should have - and was quite sorry for the experience to come to an end.”

Zoe set her glass down on the bar, as if that line had been her cue, and retrieved an ornate gilt-and-leather case from inside her luggage.  “Who says it has to come to an end?” she said mischievously.  “We’ve got another sixteen hours on this plane.  In which Harold has very thoughtfully provided us with a bed.”

Harold could not take his eyes off the case, his heart pounding as he put the approximate dimensions of it together with her words and realized what she was saying.

“Ms. Morgan, am I to understand that you have brought with you onto this plane some kind of device which simulates -”

“It’s a strap-on, Harold, you can say it,” she laughed.

John said nothing.  He knew exactly what was in the box - and so did Stephen, who had been in line behind them at airport security in Dubai.  “It’s for fucking,” she had said calmly in an entirely unembarrassed town to the uniformed security staffer who had insisted she open the case for him to scan it.  “Shall I turn it on to verify that it’s not explosive?”

“Oh, it’s explosive all right,” piped up Stephen from the other line, which had led to detention and a full-body scan as a consequence of making a bomb joke in an airport.  “They really don’t have a sense of humor about that kind of thing,” John had observed as he emerged from the security office.  “Worth it,” Stephen had pronounced firmly, and the last John saw of the man after they hugged goodbye (John knew better than to kiss another man on the mouth in a Middle Eastern airport; even the embrace was risky, but he couldn’t stop himself) was Stephen chuckling at his own sense of humor as he headed down to the far end of the terminal for his flight to Beijing.

Zoe returned to the chairs where John and Harold sat and opened the gilt box to reveal a gleaming black cock made of some impossibly costly Swedish-designed ergonomic high-tech polymer, attached to a harness of crimson silk straps, resting on a lining of snow-white velvet.  It had set Zoe back twelve thousand dollars and was worth every penny. 

Harold’s curiosity got the better of him, and he leaned forward to get a closer look.  “My goodness, Ms. Morgan,” he said as he examined the large, thick, smoothly curved object.  “You are certainly well-endowed.”

Zoe’s head snapped up to stare at him.  So did John’s.  “Why, Harold Finch.  You made a dirty joke,” Zoe exclaimed in delight.  “I never thought I’d see the day.”  

Enormously pleased with himself, Harold smiled a quiet little smile at Zoe, who grinned back.  John, meanwhile, was entirely unable to tear his eyes off the cock.  He was envisioning it strapped to Zoe’s curved hips, imagining how it would feel sliding into him, wondering if it would feel as good as Stephen felt.  He thought about Zoe riding him with that cock while Harold watched, the way he had watched last night, and his entire body began to grow warm and flushed.  He felt his cock begin to tighten in his lap, and from the way both sets of eyes flickered swiftly downwards and then back up again, he could tell that the others knew.

Harold, seated directly across from John, leaned forward to look at him directly.  He moved as though about to take John’s hands in his own, then thought better of it.  “Mr. Reese,” he began uncertainly, "I have already trespassed unpardonably on your intimate life without permission.  I should hate for you to feel that I was intruding upon you and Ms. Morgan - "

“Goddammit, Finch,” growled John in a voice so hoarse with lust that it was almost a roar, and then he did something he’d never done before.  He surged forward out of his seat, grabbed Harold in his arms - pulling them both onto their feet - and then he kissed him.

Hard.

It was brief and rough and hungry and insistent and not like John Reese at all.  It startled all of them.  From the look on his face when he pulled away, breathing heavily, Zoe could see that John was as astonished by it as anyone else.

“My goodness, Mr. Reese,” said Harold in a slightly shaken voice, struggling to catch his breath.

“Jesus, John, _warn_ a girl before you do that,” said Zoe, dazed.  “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“I’m sorry,” John said quietly, collapsing inward slightly as though afraid he’d revealed too much of himself.  “I don’t know what came over me.”  

“Oh, honey, don’t apologize,” said Zoe with a faint laugh.  “And don’t stop doing it.”

“No, Mr. Reese,” said Harold in a voice so quiet it was almost inaudible.  Please.  Don’t stop doing it.”

And so the second time it was different.  The second time it happened, John took Harold’s face in his hands with infinite tenderness and Harold’s mouth parted as John bent his head and kissed him, at first light and sweet and full of affection, then deepening into something altogether different, pulling them inescapably into each other as a force stronger than gravity locked their mouths together and stirred both their hearts into pounding so hard that even Zoe could hear them.  The kiss went on for what felt like a lifetime, and by the time Harold finally stepped back to catch his breath he was more visibly shaken than either of them had ever seen him.

“Mr. Reese,” he began, “I value your friendship more than any other of my life, and would risk anything rather than lose it.  Perhaps it was naive of me to believe myself capable of sharing such occasional acts of physical intimacy as we have enjoyed together without complicating such an important partnership.  Yet I was unaware until last night - no, not even then; I suppose until just this moment - that far deeper emotions were involved, on my side at least, than those dictated by friendship, or the straightforward desires of the body.  And unless I am mistaken,” he added, looking up into John’s serious dark eyes, “it appears perhaps that you may be experiencing the same rather . . . confused sensations yourself.”

“No confusion on my end, Finch,” said John with an affectionate grin, and he bent his head to kiss him breathless again.

“Harold,” said Zoe, leaning back in her seat and crossing her legs as the men kissed with increasing urgency in front of her, “our boy here is very good at following directions.  I think you should consider telling him exactly what you want.  The way he’s kissing you right now, I think you’ll get it.”

John’s mouth drifted from Harold’s lips to his jaw and neck, freeing his mouth to speak.  “May I be so bold as to inquire whether you might permit me to observe yourself and Ms. Morgan in the bedroom?" asked Harold politely.  "I find I have a great curiosity to study the workings of this device up close.”

"Say please," reminded Zoe.

"Please," Harold repeated in a low voice, then hesitated for a fraction of a second before adding, “ . . . John.”

Maybe it was the kiss, maybe it was Zoe’s cock sitting demurely in its velvet box in her lap, maybe it was the way Harold said his name, but something snapped between them and a heartbeat later all three of them were in bedroom with the door latched behind them.  Zoe motioned for Harold to make himself comfortable in the lush silvery-gray armchair next to the bed.  He seated himself demurely, with perfect straight posture, and said quietly but firmly, “Mr. Reese, I would like you to undress Ms. Morgan, please.”

Zoe gave a faint little shiver.  “Damn,” she murmured under her breath.  “If Harold’s in the driver’s seat I’m very much looking forward to this.”

“Your satisfaction is guaranteed, Ms. Morgan,” said Harold, smiling privately at his own little joke, then sitting back comfortably in his chair to supervise the proceedings.

Zoe stepped out of her sky-high red heels as John, who now towered over her, lifted her thick caramel-colored hair off the back of her neck to press a kiss there before slowly lowering the zipper of her dress.  The emerald-green wool shimmered off her white skin to pool on the floor, revealing a black lace bra threaded with silver and a miniscule black lace thong that left very little to the imagination.

“Ms. Morgan,” said Harold softly, his eyes caressing her body up and down and making her shiver, “you are a remarkably lovely woman.”

“Why Harold,” she said, “aren’t you sweet.  Careful,” she added warningly, “if you keep up the compliments I might be forced to drag you over here to come and play.”

“I suspect you would meet with no objection,” he replied lightly.

“One thing at a time, guys,” said John, his voice so low and rough with desire it was nearly a growl.  Things began to accelerate from there.  On Harold’s orders, John took off his own clothes next - or rather, he tore them off, as eager and frantic with excitement as a teenager, his exposed erection drawing both Harold and Zoe’s gaze irresistibly downwards to stare openly at it.

“John,” said Harold politely, “will you please get on the bed?”  John obliged, positioning himself facing Harold, on his hands and knees.  “Ms. Morgan, the device, please,” said Harold, holding out his hand.  Zoe carefully lifted the strap-on from its velvet casing and carried it over to Harold, who examined it closely before looking up at her where she stood in front of his chair.  “May I?” he asked, and she nodded, licking her lips, as Harold very carefully slid the cock inside Zoe’s already-drenched cunt.  John’s jaw dropped.  Zoe purred in pure pleasure as Harold slid the cock in and out, in and out, making her gasp with each stroke.

“You’re a natural, Harold,” she panted as he fucked her gently with extraordinary precision.  He smiled modestly.

“I pride myself on being quick to adopt new skills,” he said, then pulled the now-glistening cock out of Zoe’s cunt, and fastening the red silk harness around her lush hips.  “There,” he said, admiring his handiwork.  “I do believe you are ready to begin.”

“Some of us more than others,” said John gruffly, and Zoe laughed.

“Impatient,” she chided him as she climbed up on the bed, kneeling to face Harold over John’s back.  She met Harold’s eyes.  “Ready when you are,” she said, and he nodded, gesturing at her to proceed.  Then he sat back comfortably in his chair and watched with hungry eyes as Zoe grasped John’s hips and plunged deeply into his ass.

John gasped.

So did Harold.

So did Zoe.

She rode him from behind until she could see his tensed-up forearms begin to tremble from exertion, could feel his body begin to grow loose and limp and trembling.  He would lose his balance if she went on like this for too much longer, she knew; but she didn’t want him and Harold unable to look at each other. It was important to keep them connected.  So instead of allowing John to sink down flat onto his stomach, she pulled him up onto his knees before her, circling his chest with her arms and kissing the back of his neck as she fucked him.

“Ms. Morgan, I suspect Mr. Reese would permit you to penetrate him a bit deeper,” observed Harold from his chair.  “Am I correct, Mr. Reese?”

John could not speak, but nodded enthusiastically.  Zoe laughed.

“You’re the boss,” she said to Harold, and John let out a long, strangled moan as she plunged even deeper inside his ass.  He collapsed back against her, held up by her small strong arms and the weight of her body, limp and pliant and yielding.

“Mmmm,” she purred into his ear.  “You’re being such a good boy, John.”  John groaned at this, unable to tear his eyes away from Harold.  It sent a swirl of heat and wetness low inside Zoe’s body to see the way the two men nakedly stared at each other.  She could see from her vantage point that Harold’s cock was straining against the fabric of his gray wool trousers, and knew that he was enjoying this immensely.

Harold felt Zoe’s eyes flicker down to his now-undeniable erection, and their eyes met.  She smiled a crooked, inviting smile, and he smiled back.

“Ms. Morgan,” he began, “if your offer to participate more actively still stands . . . “

“Get over here, Harold,” she said, grinning.

So Harold rose from the chair and carefully, meticulously undressed himself, folding each item of clothing just so and placing them neatly on the chair.  Even with Zoe’s cock plunging in and out of his ass and her breasts pressed up against his back, John found himself momentarily distracted by this, by what a Harold Finch thing this was to do, to fold his trousers to keep the pleats fresh while two people were fucking on a bed three feet away from him.

John felt his heart turn over unexpectedly in his chest as a wave of affection crashed over him. _Stephen was right,_ he thought, as Harold turned to look at him again.  _He was right about all of it._

It would have seemed, knowing Harold Finch, that once he was fully naked in front of John and Zoe that he might be inclined to shyness.  But he wasn’t.  He was very calm.  His cock was bigger than Zoe would have thought, and so erect that he must have been in agony; but he gave no sign of it, so fixated was he on watching Zoe and John.  Carefully, Zoe pulled out of John with a soft wet sigh and lowered him onto his back as Harold climbed onto the bed beside them.

“With your permission, Mr. Reese -”

John nodded, then squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists as Harold leaned down and very gently took John’s cock inside his mouth.  

He was clearly practiced at this, since John reacted immediately with endless moans of pleasure.  Zoe watched for awhile before bending down to join him so they could devour John together.  Harold was precise, meticulous, mathematical; if he licked up the left side, he traveled over to lick down the left.  The patterns of his tongue were crisp and symmetrical and calculated for maximum pleasure at all John’s most sensitive spots.  Zoe was more impulsive, diving in and letting her hunger guide her to lick and kiss however she wished.

“So you’ve done this before, I gather,” she observed dryly, watching Harold expertly flick his tongue against the aching tip of John’s cock, causing him to buck and flinch.

“We have performed this particular act on each other on multiple occasions, yes,” said Harold.  “Although I gleaned from last night’s aquatic adventure just how rich and diverse is the range of experiences we have yet to attempt.”

“Seventeen-hour flight, Finch,” groaned John as Harold’s mouth opened wide to swallow his cock.  Zoe laughed, watching with a professional’s appreciation for his skill as Harold gracefully and delicately devoured John, making him moan with reckless abandon.

“You’ve got quite a knack for this,” she said admiringly.  “A girl’s gotta wonder if you’re just as adept with your tools on a completely different set of equipment.”

“For you, Ms. Morgan,” said Harold, his eyes traveling up and down her naked body, “I feel confident I could do a different set of equipment justice.”

“Show me what you’ve got, then,” she said amicably, as he unfastened the cock from its straps (but left the red silk harness in place, tracing a finger over it that indicated he liked very much the way it looked on her).  John stared, eyes wide and dark with lust as Zoe reclined on the bed and Harold bent down over her.  He slipped the cock inside, causing her to gasp.  Then his mouth parted, he leaned in close, and to John’s astonishment, Harold’s pink tongue began to lap at Zoe’s clit.

“Oh my God,” breathed John as Zoe began to sigh, then moan, then very nearly scream.

The mathematical precision with which Harold had gone down on John was evident here as well.  He knew exactly where her sensitive spots were, how to vary the pressure, how she liked to be kissed and touched.  He knew when to flutter soft licks against her clit and when to glide heavy flat strokes up and down her wet folds, when to suck and when to bite down faintly with his teeth.  Meanwhile, he slid the cock in and out of her in perfect rhythm.

John stretched out on the bed to watch eagerly.  He ached to kiss Harold, whose mouth was sticky and glistening with the juice of Zoe’s cunt, but he knew better than to interrupt him in the middle of a task for which he clearly had a system.  Harold would not vary the patterns until he made Zoe come, so John waited patiently.

When it happened, they were all three startled by the force of it, Zoe more than anyone.  She had no idea Harold Finch had it in him - she would never have believed it if you’d told her - but somehow this unprepossessing man with his owlish glasses and uncertain demeanor, who always behaved in her presence as though he found her the faintest bit terrifying, had skyrocketed up to the top of of the list of the best lovers she’d ever had in her life (alongside John and Stephen).  She was utterly beside herself - as astonished (and faintly amused) as she was weak with pleasure.  She came, and came, and came, and Harold licked her clean with firm, assertive strokes of his tongue until her shuddering slowed into stillness.

"Can't say I saw _that_ coming," observed John.

“Ms. Morgan,” said Harold, “would it be very presumptuous of me to say that I enjoyed that very much?”

“You and me both,” she said a little breathlessly.  “All right, John, honey, _now_ you can kiss him.”  And while she lay still, chest heaving, struggling to catch her breath, John crashed his mouth hungrily against Harold’s, savoring the taste of Zoe as he licked and sucked her juices off Harold's lips.  

Even though John was, of the two of them, unquestioningly the bigger and stronger one, still, it was Harold who took the lead.  John initiated the kiss, but the moment their mouths made contact it was Harold who was firm and assertive, Harold who dominated while John melted into him, yielding and pliant and soft.  They sank back down together onto the mattress, tangled in each other’s arms, as Zoe fastened her cock back on.

“John,” said Harold, “I should very much like to finish what we began before Ms. Morgan, shall we say, distracted me.”

“Sounds good to me,” said John, obligingly lifting his ass off the mattress so Harold could prop him up on a stack of soft pillows, lifting him higher so Zoe could slide inside him, then bending back down over John’s hips to once more devour his cock.

They fucked him together in perfect rhythm, Harold quickening his pace to match Zoe’s, who was pumping hard and fast.  Even though she had come only a few minutes before, she was staggered by how turned on she was by the way Harold effortlessly deep-throated John’s thick, heavy cock.

John was shaking, sweating, panting for breath, but he knew the rules.  He was never allowed to come without permission.  Not with Zoe, and not with Finch.  So the pressure inside him continued to mount higher and higher as Zoe’s cock stretched his ass to bursting, nudging ever so faintly against his prostate and causing a surge of electricity to run through him that sent his hips rising off the pillows and deeper into Harold’s throat.  He was _desperate_ to come; the more it built up, the harder it would hit, and at this point he was afraid he might actually faint.  He had never felt like this before, not ever in his life.  It was almost a relief when Zoe pulled out of him, although he missed the sensation of her cock the moment it was gone.

“I think you should do the honors,” she said to Harold, who smiled in gracious acknowledgment of this gift she’d given him.  

“John,” said Harold in a tone of firm command.  “I would like you to come for me now, please.”  And then his lips wrapped around John’s hot, hard cock again and he swallowed him back up.  Instantly, John came in his mouth, with a huge, violent, gasping burst, and a hoarse wild cry.  Harold swallowed it all, every last drop, licking his cock carefully clean as John moaned, “Oh God, Finch.  Finch.  That feels so good.”  

Harold kissed the tip of John's cock as he pulled away, and smiled. “I do not, as a rule, enjoy lengthy international flights," he said, "but I may find myself sorry for this one to end.”  He pressed his damp lips against John’s slack, parted, panting mouth, and murmured, “There are very few things in all my life I have ever enjoyed as much as this.”

“Fifteen hours left,” said Zoe, looking at her watch.  “Plenty of time for several more rounds.”

“I look forward to it,” said Harold.


	6. Harold and John and Zoe, Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Because Harold Finch was, by nature, a tidy and fastidious man, John liked to please him with tidy, fastidious sex. He was deft with his tongue, always precise, and never allowed Finch’s bursting cock to spill a drop. 
> 
> All of this went to hell in the face of the caramel sauce."

Spent from their orgasms, all three of them fell asleep in a sticky, tangled heap at the center of the soft bed, limbs draped over each other.  John had fallen asleep in the middle, with Zoe and Harold on either side, arms wrapped around him.  They slept blissfully for several hours, and woke up to the sight of a full moon outside the airplane bedroom’s row of windows.  Zoe had awoken completely famished, so Harold gallantly rose from the bed to return - fully naked - to the dining room, where a gorgeously ornate buffet laden with heated and chilled trays to keep food fresh was stacked with heaps of delicacies.  He returned a few minutes later with a bottle of champagne and three glasses, which he handed to Zoe to pour while he ducked back out for a second trip, returning with one platter piled with fruits and cheeses and bread, and another piled with glistening scarlet strawberries heaped around two small pitchers of caramel sauce and warm liquid chocolate to dip them in.

The tension among them had disappeared entirely, and they lounged comfortably on the bed, naked and relaxed, drinking their champagne and eating and talking.  It was so easy to be with each other, now that the wall had come crashing down.  Harold dangled a bunch of violet grapes over Zoe’s mouth, feeding them to her one by one like a Roman goddess, which made them both laugh.  John was befuddled by the variety of cheeses (he was a man of simple tastes who like Swiss on his pastrami and mozzarella on his pizza and that was the extent of his knowledge), forcing the others to keep patiently repeating the complicated French names over and over.  It was . . . _fun._

Zoe took a juicy, honey-drenched fig from the platter and bit it in half, sending a drizzle of honey onto her bare breast.

“Damn,” she murmured, reaching for a napkin, but Harold stopped her hand.

“Mr. Reese, would you assist Ms. Morgan, please?”

“Happy to,” murmured John, who obediently took her breast in his mouth and licked it clean.  He lingered there for quite a bit longer than was strictly necessary to consume that one small drop of honey, causing Zoe to make a low hum of satisfied pleasure in the back of her throat and Harold to look quietly pleased with himself.  He cleared the surface of the bed of all the food and dishes save the platter of berries and sauce.  Then his eyes met Zoe’s, and she gave a nod, lying back against the pillows and arching her back as Harold took the pitcher of warm chocolate and carefully drizzled it across her bared breasts.

“Oh dear, Mr. Reese,” he said.  “It appears Ms. Morgan is once more in need of your services.”

“So it would seem, Finch,” John agreed as he dived in to lick and suck the chocolate off her.  The warm liquid combined with John’s hot, searching tongue felt so blissful against her skin that she began to swoon a little.

“You know, Harold,” she said, her hips rising and falling as John’s mouth grazed her skin, “I believe I recall that you yourself have a bit of a sweet tooth.”

“One might say that,” Harold conceded.

“And it would be a shame,” she said invitingly, “to waste 78% dark imported Valrhona chocolate on John’s uncultured palate.  You know he just can’t _appreciate_ these things like you can.”

Harold smiled, very pleased.  “It’s true, I do have a particular fondness for this varietal of chocolate,” he admitted.  “And I have not enjoyed it in some time.”

“Seize the day, Finch,” said John, lifting his chocolate-stained lips momentarily from Zoe’s breasts, and Harold agreeably dived in to join him.

Harold’s mathematical precision went entirely out the window in the face of the chocolate.  There was no pattern, no system.  Just two hungry, sticky mouths, roaming everywhere.  Sometimes John would take the lead, tracing a shape with his tongue for Harold to follow.  Sometimes Harold would lick up a thick mouthful of chocolate and John would kiss him to suck the flavors off his tongue.  It was messy, and electric, and brand-new, and made all three of them feel faint with desire.

Once Zoe’s perfect breasts were spotless and white as snow once more, Harold seized John’s face in his hands and kissed him with a very un-Harold-like passionate wildness that made John dissolve in his arms.  Zoe could see, from where she lay, that inside their open mouths their tongues were hungrily caressing each other.  She could also see that they were both growing desperately hard.

Which gave her a very delicious idea.

She gently pressed Harold down onto the bed, reclining on the same heap of pillows from which she had just arisen, and motioned him to stay still.  Then she lifted the white china pitcher of caramel sauce from its gleaming silver tray, dipped her fingers inside, and trailed a slow drizzle of warm caramel all up and down Harold’s erect cock.  “Oh God, Zoe,” groaned John, taking her fingers in his mouth to suck them clean with such fervor that she felt herself growing wet from that alone.

“Mr. Reese, I would be most grateful if you - _oh_ ,” gasped Harold, his words swallowed up in a wild moan as John read his mind and began absolutely devouring his cock.  Harold had, as they had both stated, been sucked by John many times, always with great satisfaction, and they had established a certain routine.  John would stand in front of Harold’s chair as Harold unzipped his trousers, deftly and expertly manipulated him with tongue and lips and hands to a tremendous orgasm, then lick him clean and return his soft cock to the inside of his slacks and zip his pants closed again.  Then John would kneel between Harold’s thighs, and perform the same service on him (only seated, because John was never unattentive to Harold’s injured leg).  Because Harold Finch was, by nature, a tidy and fastidious man, John liked to please him with tidy, fastidious sex.  He was deft with his tongue, always precise, and never allowed Finch’s bursting cock to spill a drop.  

All of this went to hell in the face of the caramel sauce.

Harold didn’t care about spilling caramel on the sheets.  He didn’t care about the mess.  John’s mouth on his cock was sticky and hungry and wild and frantic and every sensation was brand-new.  John was devouring him with too much desperate lust to bother being tidy, swallowing and licking like Harold’s cock was the most delicious thing in the world.  No one had ever wanted Harold Finch that way.  No one had ever been _overcome_ by him.  Not like this.  And he had never felt it before, either.  He was closer to losing control than he’d ever been in all his life.

Beside them, Zoe stroked John’s hair encouragingly as she watched his cheeks hollow and expand while he took Harold deeper and deeper.  Once every last drop of caramel was gone he grabbed the pitcher and drizzled even more all over Harold, then dived in again, swallowing him up.  Harold was too shattered by sensation to do anything more than close his eyes and whimper, his hands caressing John’s shoulders.  Then, just as the waves of a staggering orgasm reared up inside Harold and began to overtake him, he pushed the faintest bit at John’s shoulders and said, “John, please.  Stop.”

Instantly John did, pulling back suddenly and completely, unsure of what he’d done wrong.  His face looked almost crestfallen, forcing Harold to reach out a reassuring hand.

“That was extraordinarily pleasurable, Mr. Reese,” said Harold in a comforting voice, which softened the stricken look in John’s eyes somewhat.  “But I find myself desiring something different which I am struggling to put into words.  I was very close to - that is, I should like to try -”

He stopped, unable to go on.

“You mean you didn’t want to come that way,” said Zoe gently, which made the worried tension drain out of John’s brow and earned her a grateful smile from Harold.

“Thank you, Ms. Morgan,” he said.  “Your candor is helpful.  No, I did not.  I confess I have been entirely unable to extricate the mental image of Mr. Reese and your friend from my memory.”  He turned to John.  “And as pleasurable as I always find the particular sensations of your mouth, Mr. Reese,” he said, “they are in many ways, shall we say, comforting in their familiarity.  Yet now I find myself currently experiencing the unfamiliar sensation of a desire for . . . something very different.  Something entirely new.”

“Say it, Harold,” coaxed Zoe.

“Mr. Reese, if you have no objection, I should very much like - I should like to - “  But once again, he was unable to go on.

“You want to fuck John,” said Zoe, in an encouraging tone, as though all of this was the most natural thing in the world.

John stared.

“I . . .” began Harold.  “Well . . . yes.”

John was stunned into silence for an impossibly long moment - but not in a bad way, Zoe observed from the way his cock twitched hungrily between his thighs.  “I didn’t know,” he murmured to Harold in a low voice, throbbing with both emotion and desire.  “I never knew that was something you wanted.  That you liked it like that.”

“Neither did I,” confessed Harold.  “Not until I watched Ms. Morgan’s friend do it to you.”

John swallowed hard.

“I have never attempted this act with a male partner before,” Harold admitted a little shyly, “but I am confident I should enjoy it with you very much.  Indeed I have been almost entirely unable to put the notion from my mind for the past twenty-four hours.”

In all her life, Zoe had never encountered anything that was simultaneously as erotic and endearing as Harold Finch’s elaborately formal dirty talk.  “This is the best idea you’ve ever had,” she said to him, “and I have only one tiny suggestion I might offer to improve it.”

“And what might that be?”

In response, she reclined against the heap of pillows beside John and spread her thighs wide.  “Well, you’ll need to be very wet,” she observed.  “So I think you should prep yourself to fuck John the same way you did to me.”

John let out a wordless, strangled groan, and Harold stared hard at Zoe, his eyes so intent she could almost feel their heat sear her skin.  Then “I should enjoy that very, very much,” he murmured, and in one graceful movement he lowered his body on top of Zoe’s.  She could feel his heavy cock nudging wetly at her entrance, and smiled.  “May I?” he asked politely.

She nodded.  “You may,” she said, and in one fluid motion Harold Finch was inside her.

In retrospect, of course, she should have been prepared.  She’d come beneath his tongue already, and she’d observed that he was a skilled and careful lover with a remarkable sensitivity to the response of his partner.  She’d felt the way he carefully maneuvered the strap-on inside her and seen the way his tongue delivered expertly-calibrated pleasure to John’s cock.  

But when Harold Finch plunged inside her cunt and began to fuck her in earnest, she wasn’t ready, not by a mile, for the way it made her feel.

Quite simply, Harold was an extraordinary lover.  He was thorough and precise and seemed to know everything about the way her body worked.  He never made one wrong move.  He was fast and slow at the right times, he found her G-spot effortlessly over and over, he stroked her clit in flawless rhythm to his thrusting.  He didn’t kiss her, though she would have liked him to - he was concentrating too hard for that, his brow furrowed earnestly as he gazed deeply into her eyes with a serious expression.  She wanted desperately to feel him come inside her, though of course that would entirely defeat the point (though she did make a mental note to return to this later).  But there was nothing, of course, preventing him from making _her_ come, which he did a remarkable job of, leaving her weak and panting as he pulled out of her.  He looked down at his cock, now glistening and dripping, and nodded in satisfaction.  “Yes,” he said, pleased, “I believe this will be sufficient.  Thank you so much, Ms. Morgan, it was a pleasure.  Mr. Reese, if I might trouble you to be so kind as to roll onto your side?”

John, however, was barely alive, so Zoe had to snap him out of his stupor and roll him over to face her while Harold sank down behind him.

“I think I died and went to heaven watching that,” he murmured to her, and she grinned.

“Strap in, kid, you’re in for a wild ride,” she whispered.  “He’s fucking incredible.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Ms. Morgan, I assure you,” he said gallantly, then returned all his attention to John, who was already melting with pleasure before Harold had even touched him.

Slowly, a little shyly, Harold placed his hands on John’s ass and spread it wide open, sliding inside ever so slightly.  He pushed in just a little at first, startled by the revelatory new sensation.  He was astonished by the friction, how tight it was inside of John, how intense the pressure was in comparison to being inside a woman.  Harold had, of course, had women before, and Zoe was not the first to be startled by the rush of pleasure this quiet, owlish little man was capable of providing.  He was familiar with that particular collection of sensations - the soft pressure of the contracting walls, the slick wetness, the warmth.  But this was different.  He had never fucked a man before -  nor had John until yesterday - and everything felt startling and new and unbearably pleasurable.  And it was impossible to deny, of course, that part of the reason why they both almost fainted at the very first moment of contact had more to do with the way their hearts were pounding inside their chests, the way they were attuned to each other’s every breath and movement, their desperate desire to disappear into each other entirely, than simply the feeling of pleasurable friction as John’s ass contracted around Harold’s cock.  Neither of them had ever wanted another human being so desperately in all their lives, and they were both staggered by how good it felt to finally consummate it.

Unlike Stephen, Harold was smaller than John; stretched out on top of John’s rising and falling back, Harold’s head reached up only to the other man’s shoulders.  So he found himself kissing the hollow between John’s muscled shoulder blades over and over.  John had never known that to be a place on his body where he was particularly sensitive, but Harold’s lips were setting him on fire.  A fact which Harold, who was memorizing the connections between stimulus and response to find the patterns and determine what made John feel good, immediately noted.  He went slow, savoring the feel of John’s ass clutching tightly around him, the sound of John’s low voice groaning his name as he thrust in and out.

Zoe, lying nearly forehead to forehead with John, was soaking wet and licking her lips, watching hungrily as Harold pushed deeper inside.  Seeing her naked arousal, Harold looked over at her.  “Ms. Morgan,” he said, “I should hate for you to feel excluded from the current goings-on.  Would you care to join us?”

“I like this new side of you, Harold,” she said to him, and they exchanged a private smile as she shifted her body even closer to John.

Harold, in between quiet, discreet gasps of breath, spoke in a very prim and polite voice, “John, I would like you to enter Ms. Morgan, please.”

John couldn’t form words to respond. He simply grabbed Zoe’s hips as she wrapped her legs around him, and as Harold plunged into him he thrust his cock deeply into Zoe.  And then he melted completely, utterly shattered by how incredible it felt to be fucked by both of them at the same time.  Harold and Zoe had excellent nonverbal communication and established an effortless rhythm, as John collapsed into submission, feeling too many things to think clearly and simply letting them have their way with him as roughly as they pleased.  Zoe pounded against him from one side, Harold from the other, both their arms holding him close and tight, and he closed his eyes and yielded completely, going liquid and pliant and unresisting inside their embrace.  “Please,” he murmured helplessly.  “Please, please, please.”  

Zoe ran her tongue up the side of his neck, where sweat was beginning to trickle out of his hair, and leaned in to murmur into his ear.  “You feel so good,” she whispered as she rode him harder and harder.  “You’re such a good boy.”

“Yes, Mr Reese,” breathed Harold in a low voice that fairly throbbed with desire.  “A very, very good boy.”

It was hard enough for John to maintain control when Stephen had called him that, harder still with Zoe.  But Finch had never said it before, and something snapped inside John.  It set his entire body on fire.  He began to rock back harder and harder against Harold’s cock, which Harold noted on his mental list of responses to particular stimuli.  John liked it when Harold talked to him. He was used to Harold’s voice in his ear, and in bed, it appeared to arouse him considerably.  So Harold shifted his position to lay his lips directly beneath John’s ear as he thrust, and in a low voice, he murmured John’s name.  As his cock glided into and out of John’s ass, stretching him to the brink, over and over again, he whispered words into John’s ear.  He told him how special he was to him, how loyal.  He told John how much he mattered to him, how important he was, how much the team needed him.  How much _he_ needed him.  He did not use the one particular word for these feelings he might have wanted to use - it still felt, in a way, too soon.  But his words filled in all the space around it and gave the missing word a shape, the way snow falling on a tree branch on the ground leaves a green grass hollow beneath it, revealing the branch’s shape even after it has been lifted away.  He didn’t say the word, but everyone in the room could feel it echo through their bones anyway.

 _“I need you, Mr. Reese,”_ he whispered, and John shook and moaned his name.

Zoe’s entire body was trembling, which captured Harold’s notice.  “Mr. Reese,” he ordered gently, “I would like you to come inside Ms. Morgan, please.  And please do allow her to finish as well.”

John could barely move, but as Harold’s cock pistoned in and out of his ass, he reached a hand down to Zoe’s clit as she rode him.  Slipping a hand between their bodies, he stroked her frantically until they both came together with shuddering cries.  He poured himself out deep inside her as she pressed her mouth hotly to his, panting in rhythm to his wild keening breaths.  A moment or two later, Harold spoke again.  “Mr. Reese, with your permission,” he asked politely, “may I come inside you?”

John was spent, drained, limp, shaking.  Zoe cradled him tenderly in her arms, stroking his hair.  he could do nothing more than nod.  And so Harold came inside John, quietly and without a great deal of physical reaction - no grunting, no trembling, hardly any sound - but with great force.  The explosive burst of liquid inside John startled him with its power and caused him to moan weakly in Zoe’s arms.

Harold took John by the shoulders and rolled him onto his back in order to kiss him.  John was too spent to respond with any degree of force, but he savored the way Harold’s mouth moved so insistently and firmly against his own.  “Thank you, Mr. Reese,” he whispered.  “That was . . . indescribable.  I enjoyed it very much.”


	7. Harold and John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The Machine knows there is no danger so great that you would not storm the building to rescue me. It sees more than we do, Mr. Reese. It would have put the proper name to this thing between us long ago."

 

Sleep was an absolute necessity after this - John could hardly keep his eyes open - so they curled up on either side of him again and sank into a warm, dazed slumber.  John woke as the sun was rising.  Zoe had the gift of dropping into a deep, effortless slumber at the drop of a hat in any and all situations, and with eight hours left of their seventeen-hour flight, she was comfortably savoring the rare ability to be absolutely lazy.  John smiled down at her, at the sight of her sweaty tangled hair draped across the pillow and the swell of her soft breasts beneath the sheets.  He turned, and let her sleep.

On the other side of him, Harold was wide awake as well.  They watched in companionable silence as dawn broke outside their window, turning the sky from indigo to violet to rose before sharpening into a gold-tinged blue.  They were above the ocean now, it was blue everywhere.

“You think we’ll ever get comfortable using each other’s first names?” asked John suddenly - pitching his voice low to avoid disturbing Zoe - and Harold gave a quiet chuckle.

“It is, indeed, somewhat incongruous,” he admitted, “given the nature of the relationship between us over the past years - and most particularly, over the past few days - that referring to you by your given name should somehow feel more intimate than anything else.  And yet, it does.  I confess I am at a loss to explain it.”

“Same,” said John.  “I don’t get it either.  Makes some things easier, I guess.  Gives you a little breathing room.  Distance, maybe.”

“Is distance what you want from me, Mr. Reese?”

“It’s not about wanting, Finch, it’s about needing.”

“Would I be correct to surmise, then, that you refer to me as ‘Finch’ not simply as a professional courtesy as your employer, but because of something perhaps more like . . . fear?”

John found he could not quite meet Finch’s searching gaze.  “I’ve lost a lot of people, Finch,” was all he said.

“So have I, Mr. Reese,” Harold reminded him.

“I’m a dangerous guy to get close to.  Bad things happen.”

“And you worry - perhaps accurately, perhaps superstitiously - that allowing anyone to cross over the other side of that line places them into increased peril.”

“It’s my job not to let anything bad happen to you, Finch,” said John.  “This is part of how I do that. A guy like me can’t get close to people.  It leaves you open.  Vulnerabilities get exploited.  You know that.  I know that.  A virus can’t get through the firewall unless there’s a blind spot.”

“That’s a startling metaphor coming from you.”

“You and Root don’t give me enough credit for paying attention when you start rambling crazy nerd talk,” said John.  “I’ve picked up a few things here and there.”

Harold smiled.  “I must admit I feel the same, Mr. Reese,” he said.  “I feel strongly protective of our peculiar little family - most of all of you - and I feel a tremendous sense of responsibility for your well-being. And I find it somehow simplifies things to refer to each of you in a manner less personal and more professional."

"Ship sailed a long time ago on keeping things between us simple, Finch."

"I'm beginning to realize that, yes,” said Harold softly, reaching out a hand to stroke John’s cheek.  “Though I do sometimes wonder, perhaps, if in fact all of this is really a great deal simpler than we thought.”

John’s heart began to pound violently inside his chest, heavy and rapid like a martial drum.  “Maybe you’re right,” he said in a rough whisper.  “It’s only got four letters.  Seems pretty simple to me.”

Harold nodded his agreement.  “And yet somehow,” he said, “I have always found it the most bafflingly complex invention in all the world.”

“Of course you do, Finch,” said John.  “You hate anything you can’t predict.  But you can’t run computer simulations on human behavior.  Your Machine can predict a lot of things, Finch, but it didn’t predict this.  And anything your Machine doesn’t see coming scares the shit out of you.”

"The Machine understands us better than we do ourselves, Mr. Reese."

"I'm not sure I buy that."

“No?  Are you certain?  How many times have you or I found ourselves in peril of some kind and been sent by the Machine to each other's rescue? It _knows_ us, Mr. Reese. It extrapolates patterns based on behavior.  It understands.  It knows there are no lengths to which I would not go to keep you as safe as I can. It knows there is no danger so great that you would not storm the building to rescue me. It sees more than we do, Mr. Reese. It would have put the proper name to this thing between us long ago."

"People can't be programmed, Finch. We gotta get there on our own time."

"And here we are."

"Yeah. Here we are. On a billionaire plane. With a naked girl in the bed. Covered in dessert. What's the Machine gonna do with that?"

"Presumably incorporate it into its data models."

"I'm not sure I like that thing knowing this much about my love life, Finch,” said John dryly, before they both froze once he realized exactly what he’d said.

There it was.

The silhouette of the missing word Harold had been talking around the entire time, whose absence had thrown its shape into stark relief.  Now it was no longer a word-shaped silence, it was real and true and right in front of them and _it had not been Harold who said it._

Overcome with emotion, Harold could not meet John’s eyes anymore, and looked away.  “Love life?” he repeated in a small, tentative voice, and John felt himself grow shy and uncomfortable too.  But he didn’t take it back.  He wasn’t sorry he’d said it.

“If you’ve got a fancier, ten-dollar word for it, Finch,” he said finally, “be my guest.”

“No, Mr. Reese,” said Harold, and the glow in his eyes was like the dawn breaking all over again. “The words you used are exactly right.”

This time, when Harold kissed him, there was something loose and light and free about it, something softer than before.  John melted against Harold, who wrapped him in his arms and pulled him close, holding him tight as their mouths parted against each other and the heat began to rise between them.  Harold ran his palms up and down the muscles of John’s bared arms and shoulders, his gentle touch giving John the shivers and alerting them both to the fact that they were both growing hard again.  And something shifted between them, then, the kissing deepening in urgency to grow less soft and more hungry.

“Mr. Reese,” Harold said, pulling away slightly.  “Or - that is - John.”  John smiled.  “I have no wish to . . . That is, I believe I know you well enough to have gleaned, by this stage, a comprehensive understanding of your - what I suppose one would refer to as ‘preferences’ - and without wishing to request something of you which falls outside your -”

“We really need to work on your bedroom talk, Finch.”

“Your Harold-to-English translator is broken,” murmured Zoe sleepily from behind him.  “He’s asking _you_ to fuck _him_.”  Then she rolled over and went back to sleep.  (Or, at least, conveyed a very credible impression of sleep, in order to give them both the illusion of some much-needed privacy.)

John stared, his eyes wide.  His preference, as Harold had noted so adroitly, was rarely to be the one doing the dominating.  He had never once considered this with Harold before.  But Harold’s expression was so imploring, and it was so clear to John how badly Harold wanted this, that he found himself unexpectedly intrigued.

“This is really what you want?” he asked Harold curiously, and the other man nodded with unbridled enthusiasm.

"I find myself curious for a better understanding of the way it appears to bring you such pleasure when such an act is performed on you. If such a request is not too much trouble."

"No trouble, Finch."

"Do you require any sort of preparatory assistance?"

"Not me,” said John, shaking his head.  “ _You_ might, though. Have you ever -"

"Never,” said Harold, almost timidly, and John felt a wave of heat overtake him at the thought of being the very first person to have Harold Finch this way.

“Okay,” he said to Harold, and rolled him gently onto his stomach.  “Hang on,” he added, “I’m just gonna run next door to borrow something from Zoe.”  And he reached over to where Zoe, feigning sleep, had helpfully spread her thighs wide open to allow John’s hand access to her soaking wet cunt.  He slid his fingers deep inside to wet them thoroughly, then very gently massaged Harold’s ass for a few minutes, probing lightly at his entrance, to prepare him.  Finally, he carefully and gently slid one finger inside.  Harold’s ass clamped down around it but he didn’t make a sound.  “Is that okay?” he asked Harold.

"More than okay, Mr. Reese, please continue,” Harold said in a low voice.  So John slid in a second finger to join the first, stretching Harold ever so slightly and causing him to gasp.  John curled the fingers inside him just the tiniest bit and scissored them ever so slightly.  The sensations were so new and startling to Harold that they drew forth an exclamation of “Oh!” in a tone of surprise and wonder that melted John’s heart.  It was clear that Harold was enjoying the experience tremendously.  

John massaged him for awhile longer, then extracted his fingers and lowered himself onto Harold’s body, resting his weight carefully on his knees and forearms as he straddled him.  Then he leaned in close to Harold’s ear and murmured in a low voice, “All right, Finch, I’m ready for your orders.  Tell me what you want me to do.”

And before he even knew what he was saying, the words tumbled all in a rush out of Harold’s mouth:

“I want you to fuck me.”

It startled them both equally, and for a moment they were both frozen in silence.  Harold couldn’t believe he’d just said that.  John couldn’t believe how incredibly hot it was.  “Yes, sir,” he finally murmured into Harold’s ear, kissing him up and down his neck and then very, very slowly pushing his cock inside.

Harold let out a raw, unguarded moaning sound that John had never heard him make before, and instantly he clenched tightly around John’s cock.

“Should I stop?” John murmured.  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Oh, Mr. Reese,” breathed Harold, “please don’t stop.  I find the slight discomfort to be astonishingly pleasurable.”

“Yeah, I thought so too.”

“Might it be possible to increase the pressure?”

“Hell yeah it is,” John murmured.  “I’m barely inside you, Finch.  There’s a lot more coming.”

“I would like more, then, please,” said Harold, and John surged in deeper, his cock disappearing halfway inside Harold’s ass.

Harold’s entire body clenched and contracted around John’s cock this time, his hips rising off the bed to meet him, and John felt himself grow weak and faint.  Nothing had ever, ever felt so good on his cock, nothing had ever gripped him as tightly as Harold Finch’s pristine virgin ass.  Nobody had ever wanted him so badly.  All John wanted was to give Harold the kind of pleasure that Harold had given him.  All he wanted in the whole world was to make Harold come, and then kiss him until he fell asleep in his arms.

“More?” he whispered into Harold’s ear, and Harold gave a soft moan.

“Oh my goodness,” he murmured.  “Is that possible?  Is there really _more_?”

“I’m in about halfway,” said John quietly.  “Do you want -”

“I want all of you, John,” Harold whispered brokenly.  “Please.  Please.”

Overcome with desire, John spread Harold’s ass with his strong hands and slid slowly and carefully all the way in, then gently began to pump in and out.  

The effect was electric.  He could feel Harold’s entire body respond to the intoxicating combination of a small amount of pain beneath an avalanche of pleasure.  But there was so much joy in it too, so much affection and surprise and delight.  

John rolled Harold gently from his stomach to his side so he could hold him.  Gently and tenderly, he thrust in and out of Harold’s ass as he felt the smaller man turn to liquid in his arms.  Harold could hardly move or make coherent sounds as John’s massive cock stretched him to bursting and nudged at his prostate again and again and again, and as he whimpered faintly inside John’s arms John felt his heart begin to swell inside his chest.  He thought about that four-letter word he’d accidentally said and about how long the Machine had known he would take a bullet for this man and he was so overcome that he wrapped Harold in a tight, protective embrace, like a human shield, pulling him close to fuck him harder and faster, faster and harder, and when Harold finally came (John would never have allowed himself to come before make sure that Harold did), he gave a low cry and began to tremble.  “Oh, John,” he murmured as his cock exploded in John’s waiting hand.  John pumped Harold’s cock slowly and tenderly up and down until every drop was spent and Harold could breathe again.

“Please, John,” he whispered.  “Come inside me.  I should very much like to know how it feels.”

And once he had permission, John could hold the tidal wave back no longer.  He gripped Harold’s ass and fucked him wildly, fervently until he felt his orgasm rise up inside him and his cock swelled to bursting and he came with a roar inside Harold’s ass, he came and came and came, he could not stop coming, it went on for ages, as Harold murmured encouragingly.  “That’s it, John,” he said.  “That’s very good.  I like that very much.  Very good, John.”

John collapsed brokenly against Harold’s side, causing the smaller man to roll back over to look at him.  He propped himself up on his elbow to look down at John where he lay gasping and panting on the heap of pillows, and leaned down to press a kiss against John’s mouth.

“It occurs to me,” murmured Harold softly, “that when you said - what you said - I did not precisely respond in a reciprocal fashion.  That is, I failed to use the word that you - the word that - “  He broke off, a little uncertainly.  “This is not a word with which I have a great deal of experience,” he finally admitted, as though confessing something shameful.

“I do,” said John, and Harold’s eyes lifted to meet his, looking - just for a moment - very nearly heartbroken.  As though John were telling him something about his relative position of importance in John’s life, something it pained him to hear.

“You do?” said Harold faintly, and John grinned.

“Oh, yeah,” he said lightly.  “I say it to Bear all the time.”

The moment Harold realized John was mocking him, his face lit up with a smile so unguarded, so endearing, that John’s heart turned over inside his chest.  “You don’t have to say it, Harold,” he said, brushing his lips over Harold’s parted mouth.  “If it’s obvious enough for the Machine to have figured it out, I think it’s clear enough for me.”


End file.
